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W AMSTERDAM SERIES. NO. 1. 

50 Cents 

The 

WOMAN 

:and 

THE 

WORLD 





BY 

VALENTINE 

VAN 

ALNWICK 


NEW YORK 

LOVELL BROTHERS & COMPANY 

141-155 EAST TWENTY-FIFTH STREET 


BCW 

BmsterDam 

Serfea, 


The I 
Woman f 

and the 

World. 


) 

-i " 


issued j 

Quarterly. ] 

Annual ' 

Subscription. ' 

S2.00. 1 

April, 1896. 


f 


Lovjsll 

Brothers 

& 

Company. 


THE 

WOMAN 

AND 

THE 

WORLD. 


BY 

y 

VALENTINE VAN ALNWICK 





NEW YORK 

LOVELL BROTHERS 
& COMPANY 
1896 


~ 3 ^ 71 1 




COPYRIGHT, 1890, BY 
LOVELL BROTHERS & COMPANY. 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 


DEDICATED 

TO 


THE FAIR HELEN 


BOOK ONE. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK ONE. 

CHAPTER, PAGE. 

I. A Victim of Avarice, 5 

II. The Home of the Daytons, ... 13 

III. The Race With Death, .... 28 

IV. The Child-Patriot, 39 

V. Railroad Financiering, 51 

VI. Wealth vs. Beauty, 55 

VII. At Death’s Door, 64 

VIII. The Diplomat, 75 

IX. Madison Avenue, 88 

X. A Broken Heart, 103 

XI. By the Sea, 107 

XH. Soul to Soul, no 

XHI. The Golden Gate, 114 

XIV. The Rescue, 119 

XV. New Associations, 13 1 

XVI. Her Legal Adviser, 139 

XVH. The Revelation, 143 

XVHI. The Stepping-Stone, 15 1 

XIX. The Power of Love, 160 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

XX. Within the Cloister, i68 

XXL The Sacrifice, 174 

XXII. The Epidemic, 180 


BOOK TWO. 

I. The Influence of Friendship, . . 187 

II. The World Forgetting, .... 214 

III. The Fortune-Teller, 227 

IV. “The Mills of the Gods," .... 233 

V. Divorce, 245 

VI. The Shipwreck, 264 

VII. Dark Days, 268 

VIII. The Danger Signal, 281 

IX. The New Beginning, 285 

X. As We Forgive, 288 

XL “The American King," .... 295 

XII. Friends, 303 

XIII. The News by Wire, 323 

XIV. The Farewell Message, .... 326 


THE WOMAN AND THE 
WORLD. 


CHAPTER I. 

A VICTIM OF AVARICE. 

A STORM was gathering. Dark clouds 
hung low upon the horizon, and, as if 
uncertain whether to pour forth hail or 
snow, seemed to compromise the matter by 
sending down little flurries of tiny balls 
that circled round and round in eddies and 
darted into snug corners and crevices, as if 
seeking shelter from the keen blasts of the 
November wind that snatched them up in 
its wild course. 

The great lake by the city of Chicago 
was gradually lashing itself into huge waves, 
crowned with white caps, that mounted high 
into the air. Its foaming billows roared 
and dashed against the shores, and broke 
in icy spray over the decks of gallant ships 
that lay in port, as if giving warning of the 
dangers awaiting them should they venture 
from their safe moorings. Faster and darker 


6 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


the clouds gathered and cast their deep 
shadows, to which the smoke of the great 
city contributed and added pall as the den- 
sity of the atmosphere confined it to the 
earth ; the wind shrieked and whistled until 
it grew into a blizzard that seemed to start 
from all directions at once ; the air became 
colder and heavier ; a fine, cutting sleet, 
freezing as it came down with blinding force, 
beat against the window panes and swirled 
into the open porches and doorways of the 
houses. Signs were torn from their fasten- 
ings and sent whirling through the air, 
endangering the lives of people hastening 
to their daily toil ; awnings fell here and 
there with loud crashes ; broken telegraph 
wires hung dangling from their poles ; the 
railroad tracks became impassable, notwith- 
standing continuous effort to keep them 
clear, and traffic had almost ceased. 

A slender woman, who might once have 
been handsome, but whose emaciated form, 
sunken eyes, and hollow cheeks told the 
sad tale of privation and overwork, stood 
gazing frojn a window in mute despair as 
the storm began to threaten. 

“ God pity my child ! I can endure my 
troubles no longer!” she moaned, as her 
eyes turned to the sky. Tremblingly she 


A VICTIM OF AVARICE. 


7 


had risen from the bed where lay sleeping a 
young girl of ten years, whose little, pinched, 
white face, as it rested upon the pillow, 
showed the blighting effect of the poverty 
that was everywhere visible about the 
scantily-furnished but neatly-kept room. 

A pile of work, partly finished, lay upon 
the sewing-machine. Long and patiently 
had the woman borne her lot, striving to 
gain a mere existence by taking in sewing 
from the shops, the miserable pittance al- 
lowed her for her labor scarcely sufficing to 
keep body and soul together. From dawn 
until dark, often until midnight, day after 
day, she had toiled, with the one thought 
of saving her child from the starvation that 
threatened them both ; and now, when her 
vital forces were so nearly spent, the 
thought, as she looked upon that pitiless 
storm and felt that she must make a super- 
human effort to contend with the long, 
cruel winter, caused her limbs to weaken 
beneath her weight, and she would have 
fallen to the floor but for her desperate 
effort to overcome the condition. 

Shivering with the cold, she struggled 
feebly toward the bed, feeling the necessity 
of further rest in order to put in the few 
more stitches that were required to complete 


8 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD, 


the work which lay upon the machine. 
There was no money in the house ; the 
supply of fuel was scant ; there was scarcely 
any food ; and she had no longer lain down 
than she felt that she must rise again to 
finish what she had begun. But each attempt 
resulted in her falling back utterly exhausted, 
and she realized that she would work no 
more. 

Lightly and lovingly she laid her hand 
upon the sleeping child by her side as the 
tears flowed from her eyes in silent sorrow, 
and the brave heart that had endured so 
long, beat even then only with anxiety for 
the future of the little one, whom she felt 
that she was now about to leave. 

“What shall I do?” she cried, as she 
wrung her hands in agony, and strove to 
suppress the grief that shook her frame. 
Insufficient nourishment and overwork had 
nearly conquered a constitution — never very 
strong — which had long held itself together 
solely by will-power, nerved by a sense of 
duty. 

Mrs. Marlowe had been a widow for sev- 
eral years ; her husband had contracted a 
heavy cold during one of the severe winter 
storms that visit Chicago, and had died, after 
a short illness, leaving his widow and only 


A VICTIM OF AVARICE. 


9 


child but little to live upon. At the time 
of his death he was a rising young business 
man. He had been left an orphan at an 
early age, with no fortune or expectations, 
save, possibly, what might come through a 
great-aunt, who, while very rich, had become 
miserly in her old age, and had left him 
entirely dependent upon his own resources. 

He had married a woman upon an equal 
social plane. One child — Leone, they, had 
called her — was the result of that union. 
As she now lay sleeping by her mother’s 
side, with that loving hand resting upon 
her, her youthful mind in its childish inno- 
cence was undisturbed by any thought of 
the future ; but Mrs. Marlowe knew that it 
was time to make some provision for the 
' little one. Once she had written to the 
miserly old aunt concerning her husband’s 
death and their straitened circumstances, 
but, having received no reply, had felt that 
it was useless to expect any aid from that 
source. Now, however, that she knew death 
to be near, she felt it her duty to make one 
last appeal. 

As soon as Leone awakened, she had her 
rise and light the fire, which had been care- 
fully laid the night before, and bring her 
pencil and paper. Not wishing to alarm the 


10 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


little girl, she merely told her she did not 
feel very well and had concluded to remain 
in bed : while Leone was preparing the 
breakfast, Mrs. Marlowe, with much effort, 
pencilled two short but strongly-appealing 
letters. One she directed to the rich old 
aunt in New England; the other to an 
aunt of her own who had long been a nun 
in one of the convents in California. As 
soon as the morning meal, which consisted 
of bread and coffee, was finished, she gave 
the letters to Leone to post in the nearest 
mail-box, also instructing her to call upon a 
friendly workwoman, who lived near by, to 
come and finish the garments for the shop. 

The sick woman had exhausted all her 
vital force in the writing of the letters, eager 
to have them mailed before any snow-block- 
ade, which the storm presaged, would be 
liable to detain them ; and as soon as the 
door closed after the child, in the reaction 
that had taken place, she had fallen back in 
a swoon which her weakness could not over- 
come. Leone quickly returned, her teeth 
chattering from the bitter cold without. As 
she saw the death-like pallor of her mother’s 
face, she reached out toward her with a 
scream of terror. 

“ Mamma ! Mamma ! Wake up, darling 


A VICTIM OF AVARICE. 


II 


Mamma ! It is I, Leone ! Don’t you know 
me ? ” she cried, as she threw her arms lov- 
ingly around the wasted form. And in that 
position the neighboring inmates of the 
house who had heard her screams found her 
sobbing and calling upon her mother, who 
lay deaf for the first time, and, alas ! forever, 
to the sound of her little one’s voice. A 
doctor was sent for, who pronounced the 
poor mother beyond aid, and in rendering 
assistance, the dire poverty of the room was 
too apparent to admit of any doubt as to the 
cause of her death. Nearly as poor them- 
selves, the other inhabitants of the house 
could not possibly add to their burdens to 
bury the dead ; therefore, it was deemed 
best to apply to the city for aid. 

Induced by the complaints of the poor, 
which continued several years after the 
great Chicago fire and the panic of 1873, ^ 
benevolent reporter, in the interest of a 
large daily paper, was at the time making a 
tour of the poorer quarters of the city. 
Hearing the child’s screams, he hastened to 
the scene. Upon drawing from the fellow- 
workwoman a narrative of the patient suffer- 
ing endured through the weary years of toil 
that had terminated so abruptly and piti- 
fully, he concluded that he could not better 


12 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


serve the cause of the distressed than by 
writing the case up for his journal. He 
gave a pathetic description of the death 
from starvation and overwork which he had 
just witnessed, with a strong appeal, in 
behalf of the poor, for the approaching 
Thanksgiving. And through that graphic- 
ally-written story of another life sacrificed 
to the avarice of employers and the stress of 
the season, a wave of philanthropy, as strong 
as the storm that had preceded it, swept 
over the great city, and right royally Chicago 
responded to the call for help. 

Contributions from all quarters poured 
into the office of the journal that had issued 
the appeal ; wherever a semblance of poverty 
could be found, men and women were sent 
out to all sections of the city to investigate ; 
depots for the distribution of food and clo- 
thing, fuel and light, were opened ; halls were 
put in requisition for huge feasts, where the 
worthy — and many who were not worthy — 
were fed. “ If ye have much, give much ; 
if ye have little, give of that little;” so ran 
the appeal. Chicago, in truth, surpassed her- 
self in the readiness, as well as in the mag- 
nitude, of her response, and Thanksgiving 
Day never dawned upon a happier city. 


CHAPTER IL 


THE HOME OF THE DAYTONS. 

The sound of the piano, at which two 
young girls sat playing the “ Qui Vive 
Galop ”at the end of a large and luxuriously- 
furnished salon in one of the elegant homes 
of Chicago, facing * Michigan Avenue, and 
the rattling of the morning paper in the 
hands of a portly gentleman, who, seated 
before a glowing grate of coals, was scan- 
ning its columns, was varied by the occa- 
sional click of the balls from the billiard 
room. These diversions failed, however, to 
disturb a pale-faced woman plunged in 
thought, who was lying upon a richly-covered 
divan, her delicate, white fingers picking rest- 
lessly and continuously at an imaginary spot 
upon her chin, as she caught the left side* of 
the lower lip firmly between her teeth, to draw 
the skin more tightly. There was no blemish 
visible upon that squarely-cut feature, but it 
was her habit, when in meditation, uncon- 
sciously to pick at that one spot, as if some 
defect within or without must be removed. 

She was dressed in heavy black satin, the 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


sombreness of her attire being relieved by a 
barb of point-lace, fastened at her throat by 
a costly diamond brooch, while jewelled 
bracelets and rings sparkled on her thin, 
bony wrists and fingers. Her hair — of a 
light, nondescript color — was faultlessly ar- 
ranged in waves, which were parted in the 
middle and lay with precision and regularity 
on each side of a forehead, rather broad and 
full, beneath which were set a pair of 
steelly blue eyes, restless and impenetrable; 
the irregularly-shaped nose was a trifle large 
at the end; the mouth and chin were ex- 
pressive of selfishness, deceit, and heartless 
determination. Her colorless face, with 
scarcely a line of care, and her general ap- 
pearance, indicated a well-preserved woman 
of fifty years, although she claimed to be 
ten years younger. 

Her husband, a man of about forty, who 
was reading the voluminous Thanksgiving 
issue of his morning paper, was the type of 
a whole-souled man of the world. A well- 
shaped head, covered with a thick growth 
of dark hair, was set gracefully upon his 
broad shoulders, and the paper, held fully 
open before him in both his plump, white 
hands as he glanced at the headings, did 
not quite conceal the genial expression of 


THE HOME OF THE DAYTONS. 


15 


the countenance that appeared now and 
again from behind its folds. 

Dinner was announced. The mistress 
slightly raised herself from her reclining 
position. “We shall wait a little longer 
for our guests,” she said to the servant; 
then, turning to her husband, she added: 
“ Our bride and groom are late.” 

“Yes;” he responded, without looking 
from the paper he was reading, “ I see the 
storm has made travel slow, and, as the wires 
are down, Hubert has probably had difficulty 
in telegraphing. Then, you can’t always 
depend upon newly-married people, Ma, 
you know; they’ll be more prompt when 
they’ve been together longer.” 

“Haven’t those people come yet?” ab- 
ruptly inquired a loud-voiced youth of about 
fifteen, as he entered from the billiard-room, 
accompanied by a handsome, manly-looking 
boy of his own age, with dark hair and eyes 
and modest countenance ; “ I’m awfully 
hungry.” 

At the sound of the voice, a tiny “toy 
terrier,” which lay curled up on a soft rug 
in front of the fire, raised its head quickly 
with an apprehensive, nervous shiver, the 
eyes, so human in expression, following 
every movement of the boy, in whose 


16 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


features, the exact reproduction of those of 
the woman lying upon the divan, was con- 
clusive evidence of the relationship of 
mother and son. 

The young girls had ceased playing and 
now came forward to join the circle which 
seemed to be waiting an arrival. 

“ Have patience, Dick,” replied the 
mother, “ they certainly will be here or we 
should have received word.” 

“ I’m anxious to see what kind of a coun- 
try jay Uncle Hu has got for a wdfe,” said 
the youth. 

“ Richard ! ” softly expostulated his 
mother, “I wish you wouldn’t be so rude.” 

Florence, the daughter of the house, a 
plain, sickly-looking girl of twelve who also 
bore a strong resemblance to her mother, 
proposed a game of cards while they were 
waiting. As the four young people seated 
themselves at a table near the window that 
overlooked the avenue, and the eyes of the 
woman contemplated the group, her mind 
wandered far into the future and she deter- 
mined that day that Vergne, the handsome 
youth with the dark eyes, who cast so many 
admiring glances upon the beautiful child 
with the golden hair and rosy cheeks who 
sat beside her daughter, should be the 


THE HOME OF THE DAYTONS. 1 7 

husband of her own unattractive little 
girl ; and the fingers sought the imaginary 
spot upon the face again, as she lay and 
schemed. 

Without, all was beauty and gladness. 
As far as the eye could reach down the 
avenue and broad boulevard the ground 
was covered with a thick mantle of snow, 
which sparkled and glistened and flashed 
back many colors in the sun’s golden rays. 
The tall trees, with their spreading branches 
clothed in garments of snow and ice, stood 
out in majestic splendor, like huge, white 
sentinels in fairy-land. No hint was here 
of the terrible storm that for the three pre- 
ceding days had raged over the city. The 
air was sharp and invigorating, while the 
merry jingling of the sleigh-bells, the crunch- 
ing of the crisp, frozen snow beneath the 
horses’ feet, mingled with an occasional rip- 
ple of laughter, afforded appropriate music 
to the gorgeous spectacular display ; the 
glorious sunshine and marvellous calm of 
that clear, cold atmosphere had tempted 
abroad the fashionable pleasure-seekers ; and 
the rich robes, the handsome wraps and 
bright faces of the ladies, the fine-looking 
men urging to utmost speed their spirited 
horses with their bright, silver-mounted har- 


l8 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

ness and bells gleaming in the sunshine, 
made the scene a memorable one. 

A dashing team of black horses drew up 
before one of the most pretentious resi- 
dences on the avenue. A tall, well-formed 
young man alighted from a sleigh and lifted 
in his arms from out the heavy fur robes a 
diminutive creature. 

“ Ho ! ho ! ho ! Here’s the bride ! ” 
shouted Dick, as he threw down his cards. 
“ Look at Uncle Hu lifting her down ; she 
ain’t- as big as Sis here. Ha! ha! What a 
bride ! ” 

The terrier leaped to his feet at the 
sound of Dick’s voice and the approaching 
footsteps, adding his little yelping bark in 
evidence of his delight at so much excite- 
ment. 

“Why, Richard!” protested his mother 
as she rose to a sitting position. “ What- 
ever shall I do with you ! Do try to be- 
have yourself ! ” 

But Dick, unmindful of her chiding, had 
rushed to open the door before the pair, 
who were walking up the broad steps, had 
time to reach it. He was followed by his 
sister Florence, anxious, like himself, to be 
the first to meet them. 

The welcome to the newcomers was most 


THE HOME OF THE DAYTONS. 


19 


cordial from all ; the youth’s boisterous 
greeting and the effusiveness of the little 
girl being supplemented by an unusual 
warmth in the reception of the brother and 
sister-in-law, the host and hostess, and the 
continued yelping of the little dog as he 
looked up saucily in the shy but merry face 
of the young stranger, demanding his share 
of attention, won an answering glance from 
the earnest gray eyes of Vera, the girl-bride, 
who gently picked up the little creature, 
wriggling and squirming in its attempt to 
lick her face. “ You dear little thing ! ” she 
said, as she held it fondly in her arms, fear- 
ing to hurt it. 

Dick’s admiration was shown by a spon- 
taneous burst of generosity unparalleled in 
the boy’s history, as he said, “ That dog 
b’longs to you. Auntie. T’would be too 
bad t’ sep’rate you two — you look so much 
alike.” 

“ Why, Dick ! ” softly remonstrated his 
mother to the irrepressible boy at the latter 
part of his remark. 

“Oh, Dick! You don’t mean it!” ex- 
claimed Vera in her delight. 

“Yes, I do,” responded Dick in a brusque 
manner. “ I don’t want him any more ; he’s 
your weddin’ present from me.” 


20 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


At which the young bride hugged the 
little thing to her face, and said with much 
earnestness, “Oh, thank you, so much.” 

The elder portion of the family had looked 
on in amusement at the unconcealed admira- 
tion of the boy, and the childish enthusiasm 
of the young wife, who had quite forgotten, 
in the cordiality of her greeting, that she was 
among strangers. Her handsome, big 
brother-in-law had put his arm lovingly 
around her, as he stooped and pressed a 
warm kiss upon her perfect lips, and said in 
half apology: “You are one of us now, little 
sister.” The sister-in-law had come forward 
gracefully, adding her more quiet, but equally 
affectionate, demonstration of welcome, not- 
ing the vitalizing coldness of the atmosphere 
which clung to the garments of the new- 
comer, diffusing its freshness throughout the 
artificial warmth of the city home, and seem- 
ing to lend its purity to the charm of the 
innocent, country-bred, young girl. 

Vergne de la Vergne and Amy Robert- 
son, the visiting lad and little girl who had 
politely remained standing near the card- 
table, pleased observers of the animated 
group, were also brought forward and made 
acquainted with the bride ; and the new Mrs. 
Dayton thought, as she acknowledged the 


THE HOME OF THE DAYTONS. 


21 


introduction to Amy, that she had never 
before met such a vision of loveliness. 

The hostess, after giving instructions to 
have dinner served at once, led the way up 
a broad flight of softly-covered stairs to a 
suite of apartments above. She was fol- 
lowed by Vera and the two little girls — each 
carrying something belonging to the “cute, 
little bride ” (who, they had agreed, looked 
like a French doll), and vying with each 
other in showing her attention. 

Vera had never seen anything so elegant 
before, and her instinctive love for the beau- 
tiful was gratified by the richness of the 
surroundings; but Dick had quietly given 
her to understand that dinner was waiting, 
and she knew there was no time for her to 
admire any feature in detail. Hastily re- 
moving her wraps, assisted by Florence and 
Amy, she smoothed back her hair, which 
had been dressed for the occasion, “ so as 
to make her look dignified,’’ she had said, 
as her husband protested against her fas- 
tening up the rich auburn tresses. Vera's 
hair was stubbornly straight, but it was 
the fashion for young misses to allow it 
to hang in waves, and, by braiding it 
tightly at night and brushing it out the 
following morning, it had usually hung like 


22 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


a rich mantle around her. She had never 
worn dresses below her shoe-tops until her 
marriage. Her dressmaker in Remo had 
laughed at the child, and tried to dissuade 
her from having the skirts of her new gowns 
made to touch the floor ; but Vera, who was 
only fifteen, thinking it necessary to make 
herself look as old as possible, had persisted 
in having her own way. So as she dressed 
herself for the grand occasion of her intro- 
duction to her Chicago relatives, and fas- 
tened up her hair, her husband had looked 
on laughingly at the transformation and at 
her fruitless attempt to appear old. As it 
was, she made a quaint, little figure. 

Hubert Dayton’s marriage to the young 
girl had been a great relief to Edmund, the 
elder brother, since it was through the 
machinations of his wife that Hubert, whom 
he loved as his own son, had become entang- 
led with a most unworthy woman in society, 
many years his senior. Mrs. Dayton had 
thereby hoped not only to gain a congenial 
companion, but one who would share with 
her the odium which attached to her in 
the opinion of her husband’s family for 
entrapping Edmund into a marriage when 
a youth of nineteen, while she had long 
been a mature woman, and one, it was 


THE HOME OF THE DAYTONS. 


23 


said, of varied, and not always creditable, 
experience. 

Hubert bore a strong resemblance to his 
elder brother, except that he was slightly 
taller and possessed the slenderness of 
youth. His features were more finely chis- 
eled, but he lacked that winsome manner 
that characterized Edmund and made him 
so popular with both sexes. 

“Well, Uncle Hu, that’s a great wife 
you’ve brought with you ; why didn’t you 
marry a baby while you were about it ! ” 
exclaimed Dick, when the ladies had dis- 
appeared. 

“Doesn’t she suit you?” rejoined Hu- 
bert. 

“She ain’t only about half-grown. How 
old is she ? ” he asked, with an air of superi- 
ority. 

“Nevermind; she’s old enough to take 
care of your case, old man, and she’ll grow 
older in a few years,” replied Hubert. 

“Dick’s in love with her already, Hu,” 
said the boy’s father laughingly; “you’d 
better look out — he’s given her his dog, 
which was something no money could have 
purchased.” 

“Humph!” said Dick; “I noticed the 
governor kissed her pretty loud ; he’s the 


24 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


one you want to look out for. You hear 
me!” 

The father laughed heartily at this attack 
of advanced young America. “ Egad, the 
boy’s pretty near right,” he said. “ True, I 
haven’t seen very much of her, so far, but she 
has a winning way that strikes right home. 
I can see that even Ethelind is pleased, in 
spite of her disappointment at your break 
with Addie Pierce, whom she is so fond of.” 

Edmund seldom spoke ill of any one, and 
now that Hubert was safely out of reach of 
her schemes, his tone would have led no one 
to suppose that there had ever been any 
objection to the woman who had tried to 
ensnare his brother. 

“ I am glad you are so well pleased with 
my choice,” said Hubert. “ I can assure you 
her face is a true index to her character 
— bright and happy, something new and 
charming developing each day. You might 
think, perhaps, to look at her, that she 
would be simply a toy for one’s amusement ; 
but from that little head often come the 
most surprising remarks and suggestions, 
in the interest she feels in my work. She 
does not care for society, but her natural 
affection and sympathy make her compan- 
ionable to the old as well as to the young.” 


THE HOME OF THE DAYTONS. 25 

The reappearance of the ladies inter- 
rupted Hubert’s pardonable eulogy, and, 
simultaneously with their entrance, dinner 
was announced. All proceeded at once to 
the dining-room, where the table, covered 
with rich damask that rivalled the snow in 
whiteness, was handsomely decorated with 
rare flowers, and set with exquisite silver 
dinner-ware, upon which was served the 
Thanksgiving meal. 

Bright conversation enlivened the feast, 
stimulated by good wine and champagne, of 
which Dick urged his little Auntie to par- 
take, but which her uncultivated taste 
caused her to decline after several ineffectual 
efforts to please her nephew. Philopenas 
were eaten, and jests and conundrums went 
around with the nuts and bon-bons. 

When they returned to the parlor, Flor- 
ence and Amy seated themselves at the 
piano and played a lively waltz. Dick, tak- 
ing advantage of the music, put his arm 
around the waist of his aunt, whirling her 
about in a dance which at every step grew 
more and more into a romp as the music 
increased in time, and which he purposely 
culminated by stumbling over an ottoman, 
precipitating them both upon the floor. A 
general scramble and play followed, in which 


26 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


all the young people, as well as the dog and 
Edmund joined, and Vera, quite forgetting 
the dignity which she had assumed for the 
occasion, warmed the hearts of all by allow- 
ing her contagious childish laughter to rip- 
ple forth in many a spontaneous burst. The 
gas being lighted for the evening, more quiet 
amusement in the form of whist was pro- 
posed for the married folk, while the 
young people were left to themselves for 
entertainment. 

Vera had occasionally taken a hand at 
whist during her residence at Dr. Hall’s, 
while attending school in the village of 
Remo, and when asked if she understood 
the game, proudly answered in the affirm- 
ative. Her random playing at first greatly 
disconcerted her brother-in-law, her partner 
in the game ; but he soon discovered that 
it equally puzzled her skilled opponents, in- 
asmuch as they could not follow her meth- 
od, or lack of method, and the few tricks 
which he and Vera lost in the beginning 
were more than recovered, as she boldly led 
out her hand whenever its strength seemed 
to justify her, and played her weak suits 
with caution. 

The game, of whose set rules she was 
entirely ignorant, played by her in such 


THE HOME OF THE DAYTONS, 


27 


a successful manner, became provocative of 
much mirth, and Dick declared admiringly 
that his little auntie “was a trump, even if 
she wasn’t bigger’n a pint of cider.” Her 
playing was indicative of what her life was 
to be — original, independent, and regardless 
of conventional rules. 

At the conclusion of the game, Mrs. Day- 
ton, the elder, who had for years assumed 
the role of invalid, threw herself wearily 
upon the divan in her habitual attitude. 
Hubert, understanding her, proposed retir- 
ing for the night. Vera expressed herself 
as having had a very pleasant day, and her 
regret at seeing her sister-in-law so over- 
come with fatigue. Then, gently picking 
up her little dog, who looked up in her face 
with gratitude expressed in his humid eyes 
as he nestled in her arms, she bade them 
good-night; the hostess playfully pinching 
her chin and calling her a “ dear little kit- 
ten,” as she drew her down to her for a 
kisl” 


CHAPTER III. 


THE RACE WITH DEATH. 

“ She’s very good company for the chil- 
dren,” said Ethelind Dayton, disparagingly, 
and with characteristic subtlety, in answer to 
her husband’s query, when they were alone, 
as to what she thought of her new sister-in- 
law. 

To which he rejoined, “Well, Ma, you 
wouldn’t expect her to be company for us 
old folks, would you ? She can’t be any 
older than Dick. She is certainly compan- 
ionable to Hubert, and I guess he wasn’t 
figuring on us very much when he married 
her.” 

Edmund’s ready defense of her iniplied 
criticism provoked all the malice in his wife’s 
nature, but she had too long schooled her- 
self in concealment to give any outward sign 
of her chagrin at the failure of her scheme 
to marry Hubert to her friend. She had 
petted and caressed Vera during the even- 
ing, when she gladly would have crushed 
her in her great disappointment, for having 
a nature in such direct and open contrast to 


THE RACE WITH DEATH. 


29 


her own. At the same time, she determined 
to make a friend of her young sister-in-law, 
and, as she was preparing to depart for 
Southern California to escape the rigor of 
the northern climate, she sought to imbue 
her with the spirit of animosity towards 
her husband’s people which she herself 
had long felt. 

Mrs. Dayton had borne the stings which 
her husband’s people, who had never ceased 
to look upon her as a designing schemer, 
had made her feel ; and, while an outward 
show of amiability existed between them, in 
her heart she knew they execrated her ; 
hence her whole life had been a study to 
outwit and humiliate them in return. She 
had become acquainted with a woman as art- 
ful as herself, and had intrigued to revenge 
herself by marrying her young brother-in- 
law to this friend ; and to be totally dis- 
armed by innocence so apparent was an 
interference which she had not counted upon. 

“ She’ll do very well,” she said patron- 
izingly in response to her husband’s remark. 

Vera had only words of praise for her 
new sister, until Hubert thought it well to 
warn her concerning any confidence she 
might be inclined to place in one whom he 
knew to be so treacherous. And to put her 


30 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


thoroughly upon her guard, he related to 
her the story of the marriage of his brother 
at the age of nineteen to this woman, who 
had followed him from New York for that 
purpose ; how she had ever since been a 
burden upon his hands, playing the role of 
an invalid to enlist his sympathy; receiving 
everything, while giving nothing. Know- 
ing that his family despised her, she 
returned their contempt with the deepest 
hatred — as bad people generally do with the 
good. She was sickly from the excessive 
pleasures of her youth, and, as she had 
always been wholely wrapped up in herself, 
her two children were her living replicas, 
inheriting her vices and diseases, with few, 
if any, of the characteristics of their father s 
family. 

Though loth to tell his wife, Hubert felt 
that she must not be left ignorantly to fall 
under that woman’s influence. As he real- 
ized the snare which Ethelind had set for 
him and the narrow escape fate had decreed, 
his denunciation of her was set forth in the 
bitterest and most passionate terms. Thus 
was it that Vera learned her first lesson 
in the conventionalities of life, as she remem- 
bered how very polite and amiable they 
were to each other’s faces. 


THE RACE WITH DEATH. 


31 


When, upon the following day, they were 
left alone for a cosy chat, Mrs. Dayton 
found that her new sister-in-law could not 
only be company for the children, but for 
older people as well. Vainly she tried to 
get from her a recital of her life and the 
reasons for her marriage at so early an age ; 
but Vera, loyal to the sacredness of home, 
would not reveal the father s neglect that 
had brought it about. Mrs. Dayton, how- 
ever, did not lose the opportunity of speak- 
ing of the Dayton temper, assuming that 
Vera had already suffered some demonstra- 
tion of it, or, if not, certainly ought to be 
prepared for it; and in other ways, too in- 
sidious to be easily perceived, gave her 
a picture of the husband’s family, drawn by 
her own distorted imagination, until the 
little wife, in spite of Hubert’s warning, 
was prejudiced and congratulated herself 
that she was not soon to meet them. 

The family had a great influence upon 
one another, Ethelind had said. She admit- 
ted that they were brilliant and talented, but 
they had succeeded in making it very un- 
pleasant for her, and would not hesitate to 
manage Hubert and his affairs as well. 

The young wife had a strong sense of 
justice. While she believed implicitly in 


32 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


her husband, she could not, in her ignorance, 
comprehend the depth of such a character 
as he had depicted, and she felt that he 
might unintentionally have misled her in 
his harsh estimate of Ethelind. She argued, 
too, that Hubert himself had told her how 
his family had thwarted him in his ambition 
to adopt the stage as a profession; and, as 
her husband s caution escaped her memory 
under the melting influence of her sister-in- 
law s cultured suavity, Vera evinced an 
interest that encouraged the elder Mrs. 
Dayton to say much, especially as she felt 
there would be no further opportunity 
before her departure. 

Dick’s arrival interrupted their tite-a-tite. 
As his mother was selecting the garments 
intended for use for the journey, he took 
from the dressing-case a roll of greenbacks. 

“ How much is here, mamma ? ” he said, as 
he counted a number of twenties, and deftly 
slipped one out into his hand. 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” replied his mother, 
continuing her labor in a preoccupied 
manner. 

Vera happened to glance up just as he 
abstracted the bill, and though he replaced 
the roll without returning it, she thought it 
impossible that he intended to keep it, even 


THE RACE WITH DEATH. 


33 


when he slyly put it into his vest pocket; she 
felt sure he must be doing it for mischief and 
would soon return it. She made a great 
effort not only to persuade herself that her 
eyes had deceived her, but also to dismiss 
the incident from her mind; nevertheless, as 
Dick carelessly sauntered out of the room 
without replacing the bill, it left a disagree- 
able impression upon her. 

Ethelind was still busying herself in and 
out of the room, while Vera lay reading a 
newspaper on the lounge. The journal was 
several days old. “ The Race with Death ” 
was one of the sensational headings that 
attracted her eye. The reporter had told the 
story of Mrs. Marlowe’s death with vivid 
detail and startling emphasis. Vera’s eye’s 
filled with tears of sympathy at the thought 
of the little girl losing her mother at the 
same age at which she had lost hers. 
Wretched as those few years of her own life 
had been, she could fully realize how much 
more bitterly this forlorn child must have 
felt in knowing that her mother had died 
from starvation and overwork; so she deter- 
mined to visit her and take her to her own 
comfortable home and treat her as a sister. 

After a short absence, Ethelind followed 
the maid from an inner room, with several 


34 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


articles of handsome underwear for her to 
pack. 

“ How beautiful !” exclaimed Vera, notic- 
ing a night-robe of lace and embroidery. 

“Yes, and so cheap!” replied Ethelind ; 
“fancy, only ten dollars.” 

“ Was that all ?” said Vera in amazement; 
“ why, there is ten dollars worth of embroid- 
ery and lace alone, besides the making, 
which is certainly worth two dollars, or 
more.” 

“Yes, these garments are made so much 
cheaper and better than one can have them 
done at home that it doesn’t pay to bother 
with having the work around.” 

Vera looked very serious as the heading 
of the article she had just read, “The Race 
with Death,” came back to her mind. “It 
is the poor creatures, such as the woman 
that has just died, who suffer that we may 
have these beautiful garments so cheaply,” 
V era said, half-musingly ; “ one can see at a 
glance that the value is all in the material, 
and nothing is allowed for the labor.” 

“You little kitten,” Ethelind rejoined ; 
“what is the use of your looking so con- 
cerned? You’ll get used to those stories 
after you’ve lived in the city a while. She’s 
only one of a million or more,” 


THE RACE WITH DEATH. 


35 


“If that is true, and she represents a mill- 
ion or more, why is it that men cannot 
make laws to protect such helpless crea- 
tures?” was Veras quick response. 

“ There is a law to protect them ; each 
county takes care of its own poor if they are 
not able to take care of themselves. Be- 
sides, we, among others, make liberal dona- 
tions for their relief, and they manage to get 
on, and I don’t bother further than that.” 

It never mattered to her how many homes 
were destitute. She had never been known 
to do a single generous act, or to entertain 
a thought other than a selfish one. Nor 
did she say how she had protested when her 
husband had told her that he was going to 
send a check for a thousand dollars to the 
relief fund. 

“ If I were a man, do you know what I 
should do?” observed Vera, thoughtfully. 

“ I would try to have laws made to adjust 
on an equitable basis the wages of the poor. 
A laborer, whether man or woman, should 
receive a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work, 
and I would make it an offense, punishable 
by imprisonment to both capital and labor, 
should either party attempt to evade the 
law by ruse or compromise. 

“ Why, child,” replied Ethelind, surprised ‘ 


36 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


at her seriousness, “you would then have 
such an influx of foreign paupers that the 
labor supply would soon be in excess of the 
demand.” 

“ No,” answered Vera, “ I should exclude 
all foreign paupers, and employ only Amer- 
ican labor. 

“ What would you do with those who are 
already here ? ” 

“ Class them as Americans, but prohibit 
further immigration, unles each individual 
head of the family was possessed of suffi- 
cient means, and accepted the advantages of 
the free homestead-privileges that the 
United States so generously offers, and 
actually built homes for themselves on the 
land.” 

“ But, suppose a man or woman was not 
worth the average common wages of, say, 
fifteen cents per hour, who would pay that 
sum if he did not get his equivalent in 
labor ? ” 

“ No one ; but it would then become a 
question of the survival of the fittest and 
equality of rights in the true sense of the 
word.” 

“ Gracious, child ! But tell me,” asked 
Ethelind, at once curious and amused, “ what 
do you mean by the survival of the fittest 


THE RACE WITH DEATH. 


37 


and the equality of rights ? I hope you 
are not going to become one of those hor- 
rible woman-suffragists ? " 

“ I don’t know anything about woman- 
suffrage,” said Vera; “but by the survival 
of the fittest, I mean, in this instance, that 
in enforcing a law fixing the lowest price of 
labor it would require the fittest persons, 
men or women, for all positions ; hence, 
when these were filled by the workers best 
able to satisfy the exactions of capital, 
those who are less so would seek different 
kinds of work, in which they, in turn, 
might excel. Thus the overcrowding of 
certain lines of employment would cease, 
and, gradually, as the result of the law, the 
inefficient would be excluded from filling the 
places of the better qualified. Capital 
would be forced to pay a proper compensa- 
tion for the labor it required ; good prices 
would prevail ; manufacturers and producers 
would thrive equally ; all kinds of employ- 
ment would be open to the laborer at a 
fair remuneration ; the rich would have to 
pay full value for what they receive — or 
for an article such as this gown, for instance, 
instead of getting it at the cost of the 
material and ignoring the price of the labor. 
Then, if labor did not become superior to 


38 


THE WOMAN. AND THE WORLD. 


capital, it would at least be upon an equality 
with it. You know that Abraham Lincoln 
said” — and the mere mention of his name 
stirred her emotions — “ ‘ labo.’ is the superior 
of capital.’ How is it then, that capital 
can force labor to run ‘a race with death’ 
for its gratification, and be overtaken by it, 
as in this poor woman’s case, whose circum- 
stance you say is but one of a million ? 
It is awful ! It is worse than the old slavery 
days, for the masters at least provided food 
and clothing and shelter for their slaves, 
while the white slaves of capital starve at 
their work ! ” 

Ethelind’s curiosity was turned to surprise 
to find so much earnestness and depth of 
character in Vera. “ Good company for the 
children, indeed!” she thought, “I’ll see 
that she doesn’t put any such nonsense into 
their heads.” 

The conversation changed to topics 
more congenial to her selfish nature, in 
which others’ woes did not intrude. Never- 
theless, she concluded to advise Hubert to 
hold his little country-girl in check. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE CHILD-PATRIOT. 

That day the bride and groom returned 
to their home in the suburbs of the city, 
where they had been boarding since their 
marriage. 

Vera Van Siclan had been left motherless 
at the age of ten. Her father, whose time 
was given more to business and public 
affairs than to domestic life, had been so 
much from home that her early recollections 
of him were less distinct than those of her 
dear old grandfather, who had worshipped 
the child next to his God, united as they 
were in that close bond of sympathy which 
exists between infancy and old age — old 
age that was about to enter the world 
whence the young life had just sprung. 
The grandfathers devotion had been fully 
returned, and even the temporary partings 
of each day were the occasion of much 
solicitude, and at times of a deluge of tears, 
from the warm-hearted little one. 

“ Don’t cry, darling,” the old man would 
say, gently putting her down from the arms 


40 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


in which she had nestled. “ Grandpa will 
come back soon.” And as the gate closed 
behind his retreating figure, she would 
hasten back to her doll, and, caressing it 
fondly, would say : “ Don’t oo c’y, dolly, 
Danpa turn back soon.” Thus, in soothing 
its imagined woes, she would console herself. 

When Abraham Lincoln was re-elected, 
the patriotic old man had tried to teach the 
babe to hurrah for “Abe and Andy and, 
one day, in an outburst of enthusiasm (con- 
founding his teachings of patriotism and 
religion), she tossed up her little white sun- 
bonnet and shouted at the top of her voice, 
“ Huyah for Abe and Jesus ! ” 

“ God bless the child,” the old man said, 
as he pressed her to his breast, “ they’re not 
so far apart, either.” And when, soon after, 
the news of the assassination of that noble 
patriot had thrown the nation into mourn- 
ing over his untimely end, and the snow- 
white head was bowed in grief, vainly the 
baby fingers had tried to brush away the 
tears that rolled down the wrinkled old 
cheeks and mingled with her sympathetic 
ones as she laid her soft face against his. 

The dear old man had come from the 
staunch, old Huguenot stock that had trans- 
mitted to its posterity that power of endur- 


THE CHILD-PATRIOT. 


41 


ance and simple faith, that had upheld its 
members through centuries of persecution 
for righteousness’s sake, and had finally fled 
to America, there to worship God in freedom. 
In his vocation as minister of the Gospel, 
responding to the call of duty, he had left a 
comfortable home in New York for the 
rough environment of the then far western 
State of Illinois, and had preached his Mas- 
ter’s doctrine in all the simplicity and direct- 
ness of manner that had won many converts 
to the religion he himself lived. 

But his son had become worldly in feeling 
as well as in mode of living, for while pre- 
serving an honorable name among men, 
John Van Siclan had allowed himself to 
neglect the duties of home and family, 
whose observance, the teachings and exam- 
ple of his father should have impressed upon 
his mind. The wealth he had accumulated 
had drawn about him a crowd of sycophants 
who preyed upon him, and under whose 
influence he had gradually come to make a 
selfish indulgence the rule of his life. He 
frequently took an active part in politics, 
although neither seeking nor accepting office 
for himself, preferring rather to assist in 
placing what he thought the right party in 
power. Staunch in his party principles, like 


42 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


many who had been trained in that noble, 
old school of statesmanship almost extinct 
in these latter days of trusts and combines, 
monopolies, and corruption, he worked for 
the good of the people and for posterity, 
and not for plunder and aggrandizement. 

For years after the death of the elder Van 
Siclan, his memory had been kept alive in 
his grandchild’s mind by her mother, a 
woman of rare talent and individuality, 
highly esteemed for her many virtues by the 
farming community in which they were 
forced to live, and where she and her hus- 
band were equally large landowners. Vera, 
remembered an incident that occurred at a 
meeting of the sewing-society at their home 
one day that stamped ineffaceably upon her 
mind the memory of her mother as a woman 
of unfailing charity and gentleness. In her 
absence from the room, the gossips had 
found an opportunity to attack the charac- 
ter of a poor woman who had obtained a 
divorce from her husband, after suffering at 
his hands long years of cruelty and abuse. 
She was devoting the best years of her life 
to the support of her child and an aged and 
helpless mother, by taking in sewing from 
the neighboring country around, barely 
managing to keep starvation from the door. 


THE CHILD-PATRIOT. 


43 


The boy, a bright lad of ten, had been 
placed in a store, where he was doing the 
work of a man for the pittance of six dollars 
a month. By his quick intelligence and 
attention to business he had made himself 
so nearly indispensable that his employers 
had retained the lad, in spite of his once hav- 
ing returned a saucy reply to an impertinent 
customer. This, however, had so offended 
the latter that she did not hesitate to start 
the report that the merchant kept him there 
because he was too fond of the mother. 

The scandalous remark, which, as usual, 
had lost nothing in repeating, was being 
discussed with avidity, and the woman’s 
reputation was being torn into shreds upon 
the re-entrance of Mrs. Van Siclan, who 
instantly exclaimed in a gentle, reproving 
tone: “ Charity ! Charity ! Have we so soon 
forgotten the teaching of our good pastor, 
who preached such an able sermon last 
Sunday — ‘ Charity thinketh no evil ?’ ” The 
sewing-society had considered their present 
work an evidence of their charity and religi- 
ous faith, yet they forgot, in their vicious 
attack upon the defenceless woman, the in- 
spired declaration: “And though I have 
all faith, so that I could remove mountains 
and have not charity, I am nothing. And 


44 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


though I bestow all my goods to feed the 
poor, and though I give my body to be 
burned, and have not charity, it profiteth 
me nothing.’' 

Thus would she firmly and easily hold in 
check unruly tongues that had never been 
curbed; and, with the close of the after- 
noon’s labor the goodly supper, always 
tastefully served, would disperse the miscel- 
laneous crowd of church people unanimous 
upon one point — that Mrs. Van Siclan 
was the best of entertainers, and it was 
understood among them that no festive oc- 
casion was ever a complete success unless 
her hand had a share in its management. 

That good mother’s eyelids had been 
closed in death soon after Vera reached the 
age of ten. Pleuro-pneumonia, with its 
wasting fever, had in a few days rendered 
her unconscious, and the little girl was left 
in her heart-breaking sorrow without one 
look of recognition from the loved one that 
had all too soon passed from her life. 

Several years had elapsed. A handsome 
brunette, with a wealth of black, waving 
hair, had come into their home as house- 
keeper, and through Mr. Van Siclan’s sus- 
ceptibility to flattery, and Vera’s natural 
reticence and independence, she had com- 


THE CHILD-PATRIOT. 


45 


pletely estranged father and daughter, hop- 
ing thereby to take the place of wife in that 
pretty country home. To a close observer 
it was evident that Mr. Van Siclan was very 
fond of the handsome woman. The vil- 
lage gossips had begun to wax warm upon 
the subject, and as Veras innocent presence 
was a constant reproof to him, he had, 
at the housekeeper’s advice, concluded to 
place her in a select school in a neighbor- 
ing town. The child, incapable of express- 
ing her thoughts in language while in his 
presence, had prepared to do his bidding, 
and the day had arrived, when, accompanied 
by her father, she was driven to the train. 
The thought of going from the home which 
had been so dear to her in her earlier child- 
hood ; the knowledge that it was hers by the 
right of inheritance from her mother’s 
estate ; and that she was leaving it through 
that woman’s influence upon her father, 
roused in her a conflict of sorrow and indig- 
nation ; but she proudly choked down the 
lump which swelled in her throat and buried 
her grief in the excitement of her departure. 

Nothing had been said to her about 
returning home at the close of her school 
career, but Mr. Van Siclan had sent a liberal 
allowance for her expenditures, with instruc- 


46 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


tions to the doctor, in whose family she 
boarded, to keep her until such time as he 
should see fit to send for her — the father 
being- meanwhile forgetful of the duty which 
he owed to the helpless child he had begotten, 
and to a sense of which, the ties of consan- 
quinity alone should have awakened him. 

Vera had always been a thoughtful child, 
but her ideas of the world had been formed 
principally from books ; in the isolation 
of her youth, devoid of companionship as it 
had always been, she had passed her life in 
the realm of imagination, and with the 
ideals derived largely from letters woven in 
her own day-dreams. 

Hubert, inclined to professional pursuits, 
to please his family had taken up the study 
of medicine, and, during his summer vaca- 
tion, had come to the little village of Remo to 
rusticate with the old friend of his brother. 
Dr. Hall. As the young people were left 
frequently to each other’s society, each day 
disclosed to him some new and interesting 
development of Vera’s character. Seeing 
the bud opening in all its beauty, in spite of 
neglect, and learning from their long con- 
versations of her desolate life, the strong, 
handsome youth felt at times, as he saw her 
winsome, childish face brighten at his ap- 


THE CHILD-PATRIOT. 


47 


proach, like taking her in his arms as he 
would an infant. His passionate nature was 
almost uncontrollable, but it took no part in 
the desire he had to possess her. T o him she 
was only a child ; lovable, ingenuous, like a 
dainty wild-flower, and the charm of help- 
lessness awakened all the generosity, as well 
as the nobler sentiments, of his nature. A 
little baby he thought her in her innocence, 
and this, half-earnestly, half-teasingly, he 
often called her, as he attempted to mimic 
her inimitable laughter. 

“Why should I not take the place of the 
protector that has been denied her ? ” he said, 
contemplatively ; for he felt that he could 
be at once father, mother and husband, in 
the tenderness of the pure, holy love that 
came to him in the fullness of health and 
strength. She would be his child as well as 
his wife, he thought. And when a letter 
came from his brother requesting his return 
to Chicago, after his six-weeks’ sojourn in 
the village, he resolved to induce her to 
marry him as soon as arrangements could 
be perfected. 

Hubert’s advent in her life was, for Vera, 
an awakening into a new world. From the 
first, his conversation, bright and interest- 
ing, found in her a ready appreciation, and 


48 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


her merry laughter at his witticisms rippled 
forth in spontaneous music. Hubert often 
found himself saying amusing things, just to 
witness the dimpling of her cheeks and the 
sparkling of her eyes, in quick anticipation 
of the point of the jest or anecdote ; while 
the pathetic humor, as he expressed it, in 
her recitals made one want both to laugh 
and cry at the same time. 

Vera forgot her sorrow and homelessness, 
and returned his love with all the intensity 
of her soul. To her, life became an en- 
chanted realm, and he its prince. To love 
and to be loved was what her heart had hung- 
ered for, and she gave her whole existence 
to the absorbing dream, scarcely recognizing 
herself in the vision of happiness that smiled 
back at her from the mirror. Love had 
changed her life’s dreamy monotony into a 
paradise. Her happiness brought all the 
vivacity of her nature to the surface, and her 
face, which was dependent largely upon ex- 
pression for its beauty, became fairly bewitch- 
ing as it was illumined by the light of love 
within. It was that light which shone forth 
so plainly upon her entrance into the Dayton 
home that at once won the hearts of all. 

On the day of her wedding she had written 
a very loving, farewell letter to her father. 


THE CHILD-PATRIOT. 


49 


frankly stating that she had anticipated a 
refusal from him in the event of Hubert’s 
asking his consent to their marriage, and 
had strongly protested against his doing so; 
she acknowledged the wrong she was com- 
mitting in not asking his permission, and 
begged his forgiveness. Hubert had also 
written, assuming all the responsibility which 
Vera would have taken upon herself. 

Upon the return of the newly-married 
pair to their apartments from the visit to 
Edmund’s house, they found a curt letter 
from Mr. Van Siclan awaiting them. It 
was addressed to Vera — no reply being 
vouchsafed to Hubert’s manly words. The 
tenor of Mr. Van Siclan’s remarks were so 
cruelly selfish, in view of the facts of the 
case, that both felt it useless to attempt any 
further conciliation. Hubert bade her not 
give the matter another thought, and his 
love sufficed to make her happy. 

Vera did not forget the homeless little girl 
she had read about, and she easily secured 
her husband’s consent to invite her to live 
with them. The grief-stricken child was 
found among the neighboring poor people, 
who were generously sharing with her their 
meagre accommodations while she was await- 
ing a reply to her late mother’s letters. 


50 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

Eagerly accepting this invitation, Leone 
at once prepared to accompany Vera, who, 
with accustomed thoughtfulness, stopped 
upon the way to purchase a wardrobe suit- 
able for the little girl. Leone was made 
quite happy during her sojourn with her new 
friend, who took great pains to divert her 
mind from her sorrow and to amuse her; 
and when, two weeks later, a sister from 
the convent called upon the young Mrs. 
Dayton, with an order from Leone’s aunt in 
California, to take charge of the orphan 
and convey her to that far-off destination, 
Leone’s grief at parting from her new friend 
was almost as great as it had been at her 
mother’s death. Vera promised to befriend 
her whenever it should become necessary, 
and, enjoining upon the child to keep her 
informed by writing of her welfare, she 
bade her interesting protege an affectionate 
farewell. 


CHAPTER V. 


RAILROAD FINANCIERING. 

Hubert who was deep in the study of 
medicine, expecting to receive his degree 
of M.D. in another year, had found Vera 
a valuable assistant in quizzing; nearly every 
evening being devoted to that occupation, 
through which means she became quite 
proficient in diagnosing diseases, and in 
learning the action of remedies upon symp- 
toms. He was very proud of his little wife, 
so loving and gentle, yet so richly dowered 
with gifts of which she was wholly oblivious. 

To her, Hubert seemed a tower of 
strength. He was her king, and his gentle 
tenderness for her was requited with pro- 
found adoration, and an utter disregard of 
self in her subjection to, and love for, him. 

The young husband found no difficulty 
in moulding her character after his own, 
with a single exception. He was an infidel 
in matters of religion, and upon that point 
they were divided. Vera had never pro- 
fessed Christianity, and had received very 
little instruction in its truths ; but the old 


52 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


Huguenot spirit had asserted itself the more 
strongly in her nature for having lain dor- 
mant in the preceding generation ; while in- 
heriting an equally strong faith from her 
mother, true religion had a firm foundation 
in her soul. 

When Hubert had received his degree, 
his youthful appearance was so much against 
him in the practice of his profession that, 
after consultation with his brother Edmund, 
it was decided that he should, for a time at 
least, occupy a business position. 

Edmund Dayton, long a successful rail- 
road manager and financier, had accumu- 
lated a large fortune from railway manipu- 
lations. He had reaped a rich harvest in 
the panic of ’73 by taking advantage of 
the commotion of the market to throw a 
good paying road into bankruptcy. The 
great Chicago fire had destroyed the pon- 
derous books and ledgers of the corporation, 
effectually barring all attempt at investiga- 
tion of the previous extravagance and di- 
version of funds which had enriched him 
and left the Company unable to pay the 
interest on its bonded indebtedness. The 
heavy expenses of rebuilding warehouses, 
depots, and roiling stock, had been more 
than doubled in entering them upon the 


RAILROAD FINANCIERING. 


53 


books, through numerous sub-contracts upon 
which he received large rebates ; and when 
the panic occurred, the road had been plun- 
dered to such an extent, and the stock 
had so depreciated in value through the 
rumors that he had caused to be circulated 
detrimental to its financial status, that no 
one was surprised to see it pass through the 
process of foreclosure. Yet all seemed to 
lose sight of the fact that Dayton was living 
in luxurious splendor, and was fully prepared 
to buy in the road at the nominal figure for 
which it was sold, bond it, and issue stock 
for quadruple its original cost which he had 
floated successfully abroad as well as at 
home. Through such means he had be- 
come one of Chicago’s wealthiest citizens. 

At this time, Hubert’s ambition was to 
be a Shakespearean actor. He was a 
disciple at once of Booth, Barrett, and 
McCullough, and had made the plays of 
Shakespeare his life’s study. He could re- 
produce any tone, gesture, or pose of that 
renowned trio of actors, and with his noble 
physique ; handsome face ; his studious and 
careful interpretation of the master’s works ; 
he gave promise, while not possessing 
the rarer gift of genius, of becoming a 
scholarly, and even a great actor. But the 


54 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


Daytons were not broad enough to recog- 
nize the respectability of such a calling, 
and, through their combined influence, they 
had deterred him from entering upon his 
chosen pursuit, failing to realize that they 
were thwarting the only ambition that he 
had in life, in a vain endeavor to divert it 
into channels for which he had no taste. 
Since his marriage, Hubert had entirely 
given up this one desire, feeling that his 
duty to his wife was paramount to all else, 
and that he could not afford to forego 
lucrative prospects for an uncertainty. The 
happiness he found in her affection, for the 
time being, fully compensated him for the 
sacrifice, and he entered with apparent cheer- 
fulness upon a life of business, for which he 
was wholly unfitted. 


CHAPTER VI. 


WEALTH VS, BEAUTY. 

The home of the Daytons had nearly 
always been a house divided against itself. 
Ethelind had made it a point to instill into 
the minds of her children a contempt for 
her husband’s authority. Like herself, Dick 
had come to look upon his father as a 
convenience to supply the means for him 
to enjoy life, and so never hesitated to 
appropriate, when possible, whatever his 
prodigal tastes required. His mother en- 
couraged and abetted him in any decep- 
tions he practised upon his too-generous 
father, until the time came when Edmund 
Dayton perceived the base treachery of 
both ; and, after a furious scene in which 
he so far forgot himself as to apply vile 
names to his wife in the presence of his 
children and Vera (who was visiting them 
at the time, and who fled at hearing them), 
he resolved that his family should no longer 
prey upon him. 

Dick had grown to be a dissipated, un- 
manageable youth, and his father had 


56 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


become so exasperated with the young man 
that, after many stormy scenes, he had con- 
cluded to send him from home, allowing 
him only sufficient means to keep him from 
want, in the hope of developing any manly 
trait that might be inherent in his nature. 
As his health had suffered from his excesses, 
Florida had been selected for its climatic 
influence, and thither he was forced to 
repair. 

Hubert and Edmund were both men of 
strong passions, but Edmund generally ex- 
pended the excess of his vitality in the 
pursuit of business and pleasure. He had 
long since realized the trap into which he 
had fallen when he married, but being pos- 
sessed of a genial temperament, had managed 
to extract as much pleasure from life as the 
typical, self-made Chicagoan generally did. 
A favorite with both sexes, he never lacked 
companionship from either, and was con- 
sidered a very prince of good-fellows. He 
indulged his family with all the luxury and 
grandeur that wealth could supply, and if 
he maintained two establishments, as was 
sometimes hinted that he did, no one cared 
to interfere. 

Vera, with more zeal than discretion, in 
her indignation at Edmund for using such 


WEALTH rs. BEAUTY. 


57 


language to his wife, said, when they were 
alone : “ Ethelind, that was dreadful ! I 
would not live with that man another 
moment ! ” 

“Little kitten,” she replied, “you don’t 
know.” Then, remembering the advice she 
had constantly given to her young sister-in- 
law to leave her husband, as she had wit- 
nessed several exhibitions of Hubert’s tem- 
per in the years that had passed since their 
marriage, but who never in his maddest pas- 
sion had addressed Vera in her presence in 
the vile language Edmund had applied to 
her, she continued : “ It is not the same 
with me as with you. Y ou have a fortune in 
your own right, while I should have nothing 
but what a divorce court might award me. 
For the sake of the children, too, I must 
endure. Were I as free as you are, I would 
not remain a moment beneath this roof. 
Again, it would please Edmund too well to 
have me leave him, and for that very reason 
I am determined to live with him until I 
see him buried.” 

“ But what a dreadful life ! ” rejoined 
Vera ; “ I can imagine nothing more terrible 
than living with a man and feeling as you 
do. I could not do it.” 

“ I can” replied Ethelind, in a coarse. 


58 the woman and the world. 

vulgar tone, which, in an unguarded mo- 
ment, escaped her as she winced under 
Vera s words ; while the sting of her uncon- 
sciously severe exclamation intensified the 
hatred which envy of her youth and happi- 
ness had first engendered in the breast of 
the older woman. 

But Ethelind allowed nothing to discon- 
cert her long. Feigning illness was an arti- 
fice she had practised with success for many 
years, particularly when anything disagree- 
able had to be faced, and through her su- 
preme selfishness in that respect she had 
made her husband seek pleasures elsewhere. 
Visits from his brothers and sisters, whom 
he loved, were received in a darkened room 
by Ethelind ; the almost inaudible tone of 
voice of the pretended invalid being so 
apparent a covering for her inhospitality that 
they would usually leave forthwith in dis- 
gust, execrating her very name. 

In that manner she found a way to revenge 
herself upon her husband for his lack of af- 
fection ; for her exacting nature, passionless 
as it was, craved attention. And now she had 
her usual complaint to enable her to draw 
upon the sympathy of her friends. Imme- 
diately after her son s departure she took to 
her bed ; whence she sent a gracious message 


WEALTH VS. BEAUTY. 


59 


to young Vergne de la Vergne, upon whom, 
in his more youthful days, she had begun to 
exercise an influence. She had first won his 
friendship through the susceptibility of his 
young mind by using as a convenient subter- 
fuge her motherly anxiety over the wayward- 
ness of her son, which led her to ask V ergne s 
assistance in restraining that wilfulness ; a 
proceeding that was a part of her well-con- 
sidered plan to draw de la Vergne to her 
side. She had asked him to visit her, and 
had flatteringly appealed to his youth and 
chivalry for a favorable response. 

Shortly after Dick’s banishment, news 
reached the Daytons of his sudden death. 
Careless exposure and renewed dissipation 
had all too quickly brought its due. So, 
once more, she had used the circumstance of 
her sorrow to interest Vergne in their home, 
and eventually to win him for a husband for 
Florence, though well knowing that from 
childhood he had given his love to Amy 
Robertson, the friend and schoolmate of her 
daughter. 

True to his promise, he had called fre- 
quently at her residence during his college 
vacations, and since his final return home, 
but so skilfully had Mrs. Dayton concealed 
her designs that Vergne was wholly uncon- 


6o 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


scious of their existence. She had never 
once thrust her daughter’s presence upon 
him. Knowing the attraction of Amy’s 
radiant beauty, she was too wise to risk a 
comparison with it in Florence’s interest ; but 
she hoped that through the glamor of their 
great wealth her daughter’s plain features 
might be lost sight of, and that de la Vergne 
at last would be made to accomplish her will. 
During the years that had passed since the 
Thanksgiving Day that introduced the 
home of the Dayton family to the reader, 
Mrs. Dayton had studied every expression 
of Vergne’s manly face, as at times he gazed 
with adoration upon the object of his affec- 
tion ; yet, in spite of the odds against her, 
she determined unrelentingly to pursue the 
object of her heart’s ambition. 

Vergne de la Vergne was not only hand- 
some, but good ; yet his was not a positive 
character, and Mrs. Dayton knew the desir- 
ability of uniting her daughter in marriage 
with one who could be easily managed. He 
was a descendant of one of the oldest fam- 
ilies of England, whose members had for 
generations held prominent social and pol- 
itical positions, always acquitting themselves 
creditably, though honored and respected 
rather for innate goodness and uprightness 


WEALTH VS. BEAUTY. 


6l 


of character than for any distinguished 
gifts. They had followed the custom of 
intermarrying wherever it seemed necessary 
to conserve their interests, and Vergne’s 
parents were cousins ; a fact that had 
strongly presented itself to Ethelind’s mind, 
though not coincident with the thought of 
her daughter’s constitutional weakness. 

Vergne had returned from college, where 
he had graduated with credit. He was intel- 
ligent, polished in manners, courteous and 
kind, and would some day share with his 
brothers and sisters a property of respect- 
able proportions, though nothing compared 
with the colossal fortunes of many in the 
circle in which he moved. 

He loved Amy in his quiet way, but had 
no thought of marriage until he could accu- 
mulate sufficient to support a wife in a style 
befitting their respective positions in society, 
and had never allowed his lips to utter what 
his heart most desired to say. 

In Amy, Mrs. Dayton recognized a dan- 
gerous rival to her daughter, and an uncon- 
scious foe to her cherished plans. The 
Robertsons were possessed of sufficient 
wealth to maintain a position in society, 
and, with the dower of beauty that Amy 
possessed, she could easily have taken her 


62 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


choice among a score or more of wealthy 
admirers who had surrounded her since 
her ddhit in the society in which she reigned 
a belle. But she labored under the disad- 
vantage of not being always understood, 
and the envious and spiteful were quick to 
circulate the report that she was a heartless 
coquette. No one had ever traced the sug- 
gestion to Mrs. Dayton, who, in her insid- 
ious manner, had first drawn the charge 
from another. Again, as if in answer to 
something she had heard, she had said in 
Vergne’s hearing : “Amy is such a beauti- 
ful girl, it will be too bad to ruin her 
chances of a good marriage.” The tone in 
which the remark was uttered was suggest- 
ive of the utmost regret ; but, ambiguous as 
were the words, there could be no mistak- 
ing the implied reflection. Had they come 
from any other source, Vergne would have 
questioned the speaker ; but his confidence 
in Mrs. Dayton was such that he only 
wondered what she could mean, and finally 
dismissed the matter from his mind. Yet it 
made a vague, indistinct impression — pre- 
cisely what Mrs. Dayton intended. Had 
Vergne overheard her remarks to Amy, 
which led that young lady to believe that 
his frequent visits at the Dayton mansion 


WEALTH FIS. BEAUTY. 


63 


would result in a marriage between Flor- 
ence and himself, he would better have 
understood the spirit of pique which per- 
mitted Amy to receive attentions from her 
numerous admirers, in order to prove to 
him her indifference to his supposed engage- 
ment, and that the excessive gayety of 
manner was assumed to conceal from the 
world the heartache she endured at the 
thought of the man whom she had loved 
from childhood belonging to another. If 
wealth outweighs love, she thought, he is 
not worth pining for ; he should never 
know — never suspect — and yet she had once 
felt so sure of his love. 

Her eyes grew brighter from the fever 
within. She became more brilliant, more 
dazzingly beautiful than ever before — so 
thought Vergne whenever he looked at her 
animated countenance. 


CHAPTER VII. 


AT death’s door. 

N OTWiTHSTANDiNG the fact that the country 
had entered upon an era of prosperity, as 
the result of a policy of protection, nu- 
merous railroads had been thrown into 
bankruptcy and, although it was alleged 
that they could not be made to pay, they 
were much sought after by railroad man- 
agers operating quietly through their 
agents. Edmund Dayton, among others, 
had not hesitated to add to his burden, but 
had gathered in numerous feeders to the 
Great American Railroad which he con- 
trolled, acquiring at the same time vast 
possessions which the States and the coun- 
try at large had generously assisted the 
original corporations to obtain. 

Hubert, by this time, had been given the 
management of all the Eastern branches, 
and had been located in New York for 
some years. To the young Mrs. Dayton, 
the early part of her married life had passed 
like a dream. In the tenderness of the first 
dawn of love, Hubert’s guidance of her un- 


AT DEATH’S DOOR. 


65 


trained nature had been marked by pa- 
tience and gentleness, while Vera was so 
absorbed in her adoration of him that the 
gradual change in his manner escaped her 
observation. 

But the unlimited confidence and power 
which his brother Edmund had reposed in 
him in his strong youth had gradually made 
him overbearing, while the irritation and 
confinement of a business, which though 
lucrative, was positively distasteful to 
Hubert in the disappointment of his great 
ambition, had so worn upon his disposition 
that he had become a tyrant, both at home 
and abroad. Little by little he had given 
way to his passions, until they had become 
almost uncontrollable. 

Blessed with a happy temperament, the 
pain of his displeasure was not lasting, for 
Vera was ready to forgive and forget at 
the first show of repentance from him. But 
the frequency of the recurrence had begun 
to make life for her almost unendurable, 
and she had essayed several times to escape 
from his despotism. His persistent deter- 
mination, however, and his passionate love, 
so terrible in its rage, so abject in its plead- 
ing, had succeeded in restraining her, until, 
with his overpowering will, he had usually 


66 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


worn her into submission, each time more 
angry with himself and with her for reduc- 
ing him to such extremities through his 
unconquerable love for her. For it had 
been a pure, holy love that had dominated 
him ; and since, in all the years of their 
wedded life, she had proved her faithful 
devotion and perfect trust, in spite of 
the contaminating influences of society, the 
strength of that love remained unchanged. 

Hubert had moulded her mind nearly to 
his own way of thinking, and as long as 
she saw with his eyes and thought as he 
directed her to think, there was nothing 
serious to mar their happiness. Side by 
side she had stood with him, a constant 
companion and comrade, he the master, 
she, the pupil ; but while he expended his 
force in useless temper, she had directed 
hers in a wider channel. Thus it was, that 
as the years passed and new ideas came to 
her, she had expanded until she had reached 
and already passed beyond the understanding 
of her master. 

Vera was not a reader of character and, 
through her great charity, was preyed upon 
again and again. The deceptions practised 
upon her, Hubert attributed solely to her 
stupid credulity and trust in humanity. 


AT DEATH’S DOOR. 


67 


He would often chide her for her over- 
consideration for the working classes — 
many times paying double what they would 
ask for work, when she thought their prices 
too low, and not infrequently making herself 
a victim to their importunities. 

“ I would want ten times as much if I had 
to do their work,” she would say, in her 
utter abhorrence of drudgery. 

Of course, you would, you little goose. 
You couldn’t do it if they gave you twenty 
times as much.” 

Vera felt the truth of the argument, as 
she thought how dreadful it must be to work 
so hard for so little ; and her sympathies 
went out to the poor and laboring class, as 
a mother’s would to an abused and helpless 
child. “ Life must be an eternal winter 
with them,” she thought, “ while the rich 
bask always in the sunshine of plenty.” 

Hubert's veneration for her honesty and 
purity would, at times, cause him to over- 
whelm her with affectionate demonstrations. 
When anger arose, there was no language 
violent enough in which to express his rag^. 
Once, when he had given way to an out- 
burst, she had bounded from his side like a 
deer. ‘‘ I am Rip Van Winkle,” she cried, 
playfully, as she ran into her sister-in-law’s 


68 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


sewing-room and secreted herself behind 
some of the hanging gowns ; “ I am run- 
ning away from old Mrs. Rip.” And 
when Hubert followed and demanded if she 
were there, Vera peeped out from behind 
the gowns with a half-frightened, half- 
roguish look. Her childish expression of 
fear and good-natured tolerance instantly 
appealed to the better instincts of his 
nature, and, with a suspicious moisture in 
his eyes, he petted and caressed her, and 
promised not to scold her any more. 

The wife eventually began to understand 
that it was necessary for him to work off 
an excess of physical force. She often 
thought that if he would only put the time 
into his business which he bestowed upon 
her in the indulgence of his temper, he 
would make a grand success in life. But 
she was not old enough to realize that his 
irritation was caused partly by the perver- 
sion of his ambition, and that her very non- 
resistance encouraged him to give full sweep 
to the passionate outbursts which threatened 
.to destroy her love for her husband. 

Her sister-in-law had spoken truly when 
she had talked of the violence of the Dayton 
temper when aroused— “ an inheritance which 
had been transmitted to them from their 


AT DEATH’S DOOR. 


69 


father, while the clinging affection, which 
had made them interested in each other’s 
affairs, had come from their gentle and long- 
enduring mother.” 

They had attained a mediocre success; 
but, had each been left to his own resources 
and to the development of his natural ten- 
dencies, without interference from the other, 
the results would probably have been more 
satisfactory to all. 

Ethelind had often advised the younger 
Mrs. Dayton to separate from her husband, 
but without effect. She had thought it 
would be a victory for her in the eyes of 
her husband’s family, since they believed 
that Vera’s marriage with Hubert was an 
ideal one. The young wife, however, had 
borne with Hubert’s exhibitions of temper, 
knowing that the fault was of the head 
rather than of the heart; but, little by little, 
the sting of his words became sharper, and 
they had finally left such an impression 
upon her mind that she had ceased almost 
to care for them or even for him. She 
was possessed of indomitable pluck and 
energy to accomplish what she had any 
reasonable prospect of attaining, but she 
had long recognized the fact that her 
power of resistance was not equal to 


70 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

Hubert’s masterful force ; hence she had 
endured. 

After seven years of married life, she had 
reached a point where the intensity of her 
love for him had turned into pity for his 
weakness. Twice had her nature revolted, 
and she had fled from his tyranny; but, 
loving her as he did, he could not exist 
without her, and his insistent appeal had 
resulted in her returning, only to endure 
again. He could not bear to be shown a 
fault in himself, but in his exacting desire 
for her perfection her faults seemed many 
and conspicuous. He had loved her as he 
found her, in her innocence and na'ivetd, yet 
he did all in his power to merge her person- 
ality in his own ; and as she grew more like 
him, he seemed to discover in her more 
faults. Had she been disposed, like her 
sister-in-law, to manage a husband, she 
might have met with greater success ; but 
she would have scorned the methods to 
which Ethelind, and many “successful ” wives 
whom she knew, resorted. 

In her eyes, she and her husband were 
one, and she would as soon have thought 
of applying the arts of the domestic tac- 
tician to deceive herself as to deceive him. 
She held herself solely responsible for her 


AT DEATH’S DOOR. 


71 


own acts, and, whether they were correct or 
incorrect, she never attempted concealment. 

The severity of the New York climate, 
together with the constant wearing upon 
her nerves, and the delicate physical condi- 
tion which ensued, had made serious inroads 
upon Vera’s frail little body, predisposed as 
it was to consumption. She had gradually 
declined, and, when a lifeless child was 
born, she could' summon no strength to rally 
from the trial. From the first, the doctors 
had looked upon her case as critical. 
Trained nurses were in attendance night 
and day, but, in spite of the most faithful 
attention, the time had come when a con- 
sultation of the best physicians of New 
York pronounced her beyond recovery. 
“ Give her anything she desires,” they had 
said to the nurse ; “ no human power can 
save her ; she is liable to die at any 
moment.” 

' Hubert heard, scarcely comprehending, 
in his dazed condition, that it could be so. 
He returned to the room, struggling to con- 
trol his emotions. As the nurse stepped 
aside to allow him to come closer to his 
wife, Vera looked at her appealingly, and 
the lips, which had been unable to utter a 
sound, formed the words which had become 


72 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


familiar to her : “ Fan me.” She was too ill 
to realize her condition, and could think of 
nothing but to get her breath, which she 
drew in short gasps. 

Earnestly Hubert scanned the poor little 
face, so swollen and distorted by pain. 

“ Baby, darling,” lie said, as with a great 
effort he suppressed his emotion, “ don’t 
you fear to die. If you do not go from 
this earth to the heaven you believe in, then 
there is no such place ; for nothing exists 
purer or better or more honest than you 
are.” 

Vera had not thought of death, and as 
she heard him for the first time admit even 
the possibility of the future she believed in, 
a half-humorous expression flitted for an 
instant over her face. Then, glancing up 
into his eyes and into those of her nurse, 
who stood silently fanning her from the 
opposite side of the bed, she saw the tears 
streaming down their cheeks, and realized 
that they were bidding her a last good-bye. 

Their emotion awakened a sympathetic 
chord in her own breast. She gave an 
involuntary gasp, and, with it, her breath 
ceased. 

As she felt the chill of death commencing 
at her feet, and slowly, but surely, creeping 


AT DEATH’S DOOR. 


73 


Up toward the vital part of her body, a look 
of perfect resignation passed over her 
countenance. She thought only: “this is 
the end.” Colder and faster crept the 
death-chill. Her eyelids lifted, and her 
glance turned heavenward, as if trying to 
see into the great beyond which she felt 
that she was entering; her face^took on the 
ashen hue of death ; the lips parted ; the 
chin began to drop. 

Hubert, in the frenzy of despair, clasped 
in his arms the form that only a few seconds 
before could not bear even the slightest 
touch. “ Baby,” he cried, “ come back to 
me. I cannot let you go. You shall not 
die.” And the tears fell unrestrainedly 
from his eyes, as he wept aloud. 

The movement and the pressure started 
a faint respiration, just as death was about 
to penetrate to the vitals. Veras lips 
slightly moved, and an appealing glance 
toward the nurse indicated the desire to be 
fanned. Hubert, fearing that his emotion 
had nearly caused her death, laid her down 
gently, and instantly left the room. He 
knew that it was impossible for her to live, 
and he determined that no further exhibition 
of his grief should hasten her death. 

As she lay back upon her pillow, the 


74 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


nurse noticed a scarcely perceptible relaxa- 
tion of the tense expression of pain that 
had been habitual with her for several days. 
Seemingly, it was easier for her to breathe, 
and, shaping her lips again, she indicated 
to the nurse that something peculiar had 
occurred. Upon examination, it was dis- 
covered that a hemorrhage had supervened. 
The doctor was sent for immediately, but 
in the meantime Hubert endeavored him- 
self to check the flow of blood, and to 
administer the proper remedies. He con- 
cluded that an internal rupture of some of 
the smaller blood-vessels had taken place, 
caused, no doubt, by his own spasmodic 
pressure of her almost lifeless frame. The 
blood flowed freely ; the inflammation be- 
came reduced ; a gradual decrease in the 
former inflated appearance of the body 
became noticeable as well, and Vera lay for 
the first time in many days perfectly 
passive, without pain, weak, but apparently 
resting. Her life had been saved by the 
merest accident, but the loss of blood had 
reduced her to a very low state, and she 
was not yet out of danger. She felt, how- 
ever, that she had been spared, and was 
living for some purpose. What was it ? 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE DIPLOMAT. 

Florence and Amy had graduated from a 
convent in New York — Florence, with all the 
distinction conferred by great wealth ; Amy, 
with honor, but in a less pretentious manner. 
Both had been successfully launched in so- 
ciety at the same time, Amy’s unrivalled 
beauty gaining for her many admirers, while 
the great wealth of the Daytons had created 
an equal social interest in Florence, as the 
only daughter and heiress. 

Despite the arts of physical culture, mas- 
sage, and perfumed baths, constantly given 
by a trained nurse and French maid, Flor- 
ence had grown to be a tall, angular girl, 
yet, with the skilful application of delicate 
cosmetics, known only to the few, she had 
given to her sallow face the pink and white 
complexion of youth and health, which only 
her bony neck and wrists contradicted. Her 
gowns were of exquisite taste and elegance; 
and though all these arts and accessories 
could not make her beautiful, she certainly 
was stylish, through a lavish use of the wealth 


76 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


which, in itself, blinded the world to her 
lack of personal charms. 

It was the beginning of the era of colossal 
fortunes and concentration of money. The 
circle to which Vergne de la Vergne’s aris- 
tocratic family connection admitted him was 
composed largely of millionaires. Amy’s fam- 
ily stood with regard to society in about the 
same relative position as his own. Love in 
a cottage was not to be thought of ; he could 
not ask her to make such a sacrifice for him, 
and he held aloof rather than mar her pros- 
pects for the brilliant marriage which he felt 
her beauty and talent would win, and which 
would supply a fit setting to such a gem. 
As he saw her bestow her smiles equally 
upon all, he quieted the pain, which might 
have been aroused to jealousy, or, per- 
chance, to courage, had she shown any 
special preferences. 

Amy, in return, proud as she was beauti- 
ful, never for a moment betrayed the pas- 
sionate love she felt for Vergne, whose 
^attentions to Mrs. Dayton and Florence 
were, through Mrs. Dayton’s management, 
made a source of frequent comment. Many 
times had that lady feigned illness at the 
last moment, and sent for Vergne to takeher 
place as escort for her daughter ; and Vergne, 


THE DIPLOMAT. 


17 


from a sense of duty, had accompanied Flor- 
ence, until it had been whispered about that 
they were probably engaged. And when the 
rumor was hinted to Mrs Dayton, she, with 
one of her sweet, non-committal smiles, gave 
tacit confirmation to it. That smile had said 
to Amy: “No one knows of your passionate 
love for Vergne; he is not for you; he cares 
to marry wealth. It will be wise for you not 
to betray yourself.” And as Amy felt the 
warm blood leaving her face, that smile, so 
full of meaning, recalled her to herself. Sub- 
sequently, when Mrs. Dayton teased her 
about her many conquests, and hinted at 
her preference for a certain gentleman, 
asking if he were the favored one, Amy 
had flippantly responded: “ Perhaps.” Mrs. 
Dayton, having thus drawn from her the one 
word which gave foundation to the report of 
Amy’s engagement, lost no time in repeat- 
ing it to her trusted ally, Addie Pierce, now 
Mrs. Gregory, the wife of one of Mr. Day- 
ton’s subordinates, knowing that she would 
certainly announce it in Vergne’s presence. 
And when, a few evenings later he called 
informally at their home and she noted his 
despondent look, she was fairly jubilant over 
the success of her plan. 

Mrs. Dayton had counted largely upon 


78 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


Vergne’s modesty and diffidence to further 
her scheme, and also upon the belief that 
he was too generous to ask Amy to share 
his uncertain prospects, knowing that each 
one of the de la Vergne family of boys 
was expected to carve out his own fortune. 
And Amy’s seeming enjoyment of her first 
season in society, with all the freshness and 
interest of a ddbuta^ite was an assistance 
Mrs. Dayton had not overlooked. 

“ Strike while the iron is hot,” she had 
said, in anticipation of the result of her 
plan, as she instructed Florence to look her 
best and be prepared to make this her 
opportunity. “ Many a heart is caught in 
the rebound, my daughter.” 

When Vergne was shown into the sitting- 
room of Florence’s boudoir, Mrs. Dayton 
greeted him with a motherly kiss, and soon 
excusing herself, left them alone, managing 
to conceal the pleasure she experienced 
in Vergne’s woe-begone expression. Her 
kindness made his heart warm toward 
her, and also toward Florence, who looked 
unusually attractive in an exquisite creation 
of her modiste ; and, as his eyes rested 
upon her, he thought it might not be un- 
pleasant to become a son-in-law to the 
woman who had so long shown such a great 


THE DIPLOMAT. 


79 


affection for him ; while Florence, following 
her mother’s counsel, had always been kind 
to him, without forcing any attention from 
him in return. 

The question of money and a home did 
not seem to affect Vergne as it did when 
the subject of marriage with his peerless 
Amy had presented itself for his considera- 
tion. There was nothing too good to offer 
her, in his eyes, and he had, comparatively, 
so little. But with Florence it was a differ- 
ent matter. Everything that wealth could 
buy was at her command. All hope of 
ever possessing Amy had fled, and under 
the influence of the disappointment, and 
the soothing encouragement of Florence 
and her mother, he impulsively offered him- 
self as a suitor for the young lady’s hand. 

Mrs. Dayton, who, from behind the heavy 
draperies; had been listening to every word 
he said, had the pleasure of hearing his 
proposal of marriage, which lacked in noth- 
ing but warmth. Her triumph was assured. 
Eight years she had schemed and worked 
for it. Success had crowned her efforts at 
last. 

She must recover herself before appearing 
in their presence again, and she retired to 
her own apartments to arrange some scheme 


8o 


THE WOMAN AND THE W(. RLD. 


for bringing about a hasty marriage, feeling 
that delay might prove dangerous. The 
engagement had been rumored for some 
time, and she could the more easily bring it 
at once to a seemingly natural climax. 

Upon her re-entrance some minutes later, 
she said in a soft, purring manner, but 
abruptly : “ I think I have some good news 
for you, Vergne. How would you like to 
go to London with our agent there, and 
learn railroad financiering?” 

“ I should be very grateful, indeed, Mrs. 
Dayton, for the position,” said Vergne, fall- 
ing into the trap at once ; “ and would be 
doubly so if you would allow me to take 
Florence with me as my wife.” 

“ What !” she said, assuming amazement, 
but with a pleased look; “when did you 
two conclude upon such an arrangement ?” 

Vergne replied : “ I know it is premature, 
and, perhaps, presuming in me — an almost 
penniless youth — to ask the hand of any 
woman in marriage ; but Florence would 
want for nothing that wealth could supply, 
while I am capable enough to make suf- 
ficient for my own needs, and I had the 
assurance to hope that I might be consid- 
ered eligible to the position.” 

“That is well said, my boy,” replied Mrs. 


THE DIPLOMAT. 


8l 


Dayton, patting him playfully upon the 
cheek ; “ no person on earth could please 
me better for a son-in-law than yourself,” 
and she continued in a confidential manner, 
as if bestowing upon them both a brand- 
new secret : “ I have often wished you two 
would think enough of each other to marry, 
but if you had not, I should have the same 
love for you, Vergne. I have for a long 
time past been trying to get Edmund to 
make a place for you in his office, but, 
until to-day, I have never received any 
encouragement. I find, now, the only good 
opening is in London, and that must be 
filled at once, as the changes are almost 
concluded upon. So, whenever you are 
ready, we shall try to arrange it.” 

“ I am ready at any time,” said Vergne, 
with a suppressed sigh, as he thought how 
painful it would be to see Amy receiving 
attention from another ; “ the sooner the 
better.” 

“ If the opportunity had only come to me 
before,” thought he, “I might have had 
courage to ask Amy to wait until I could 
offer her a suitable home, but it’s too late 
now ; she is engaged, and so am I.” And 
he determined to face the inevitable with 
a brave heart. 


82 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


He did not know that Mrs. Dayton could 
have secured him a good position at any 
time, and that she only presented it now 
to place him under obligations to her after 
she had heard his declaration to her 
daughter; for she knew that he was too 
honorable, under such circumstances, to 
attempt to release himself. 

“ Well,” she said, after some deliberation, 
“ I do not think the position can be held 
open more than two weeks longer, and, if 
that’s the case, we must announce your en- 
gagement at once, and make preparations 
for an immediate wedding.” 

Florence, thinking it necessary to act the 
part of a coy maiden, exclaimed: “ But, 
mamma, how can I be ready in so short a 
time?” 

“ Now, dear, please leave it all to me,” 
replied Mrs. Dayton, with importance; “with 
Vergne’s assistance, I am sure I can manage 
a wedding in two weeks, and if your trous- 
seau is not complete, all the better. You 
can go to Worth, in Paris, and have him 
design as many and as elaborate gowns as 
you like. Our modiste here can make suf- 
ficient for your present needs.” 

Vergne was dumbfounded; but he knew 
that Mr. Dayton was considered a man of 


THE DIPLOMAT. 


S3 


unusual executive ability, and he supposed 
that his wife had absorbed more or less of 
this quality from contact; so, as matters 
stood, he could only acquiesce in her sug- 
gestions. 

The remainder of the evening was spent 
in planning; Vergne committing himself ir- 
retrievably to every arrangement. The fact 
that Mrs. Dayton had put his future pros- 
pects in so uncertain alight seemed to force 
him to place himself entirely at her com- 
mand. 

Was ever a victory so signally achieved? 
Had she been a general fighting in a bad 
cause she would have been a dangerous foe, 
for talent like hers has been known to over- 
throw nations. 

When Vergne left the home of the Day- 
tons that evening, he carried over a heavy 
heart a most elaborate design for wedding 
invitations, which were to be ready for de- 
livery late upon the following day ; and Mrs. 
Dayton took it upon herself to see that they 
reached their various destinations without 
delay. 

The announcement was no surprise to the 
numerous acquaintances, although the mat- 
ter had been an open question until then, 
through Mrs. Daytons cautious provision 


§4 tHE WOMAN and the WORLD. 

against a possible interference with her plans. 
The wedding was to be the event of the 
season. Dressmakers, florists, decorators, 
and caterers had possession of the house. 
Magnificent presents, with cards of ac- 
ceptance and congratulations from invited 
guests, kept a servant constantly in attend- 
ance to receive them. 

The day arrived for the ceremony. Flor- 
ence had never looked so well in her life as 
when, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Day- 
ton, and followed by a cortege of six brides- 
maids, who were preceded by two beautiful 
little girls bearing the long train of her 
pure white satin bridal-robe, she marched 
proudly down the aisle to meet the groom 
and his attendants as they proceeded to the 
altar. The bridal-party had been delayed 
by the non-arrival of Amy, who, at the 
earnest solicitation of Florence, had prom- 
ised to assist as first maid of honor. But 
when the carriage returned without her, it 
was learned that she had been taken sud- 
denly ill, and, as the delay had already 
caused much annoyance, they were obliged 
to proceed. 

Amy’s absence created much comment, 
and Vergne’s face was strangely pale as he 
stood in position for the ceremony, his 


THE DIPLOMAT. 


35 


voice scarcely audible when he gave, with 
perceptibly-trembling lips, the response 
that sealed his fate. But the incident was 
forgotten in the beauty of the decorations 
and the pomp and ceremony which attended 
the grand occasion that made Vergne and 
Florence man and wife. 

Invitations for the wedding-breakfast had 
been issued to as many as the spacious resi- 
dence of the Daytons’ could accommodate, 
and the display of beautiful presents, the 
artistic floral decorations, the magnificent 
costumes and sparkling of jewels, made 
the scene one of festivity and grandeur 
never before equalled in the City of the 
West. But the triumph of mother and 
daughter was rendered incomplete by the 
absence of Amy ; so, before her departure, 
Florence, with a smile of approval from her 
mother, selected one of the most exquisite 
bouquets, to which she attached a card 
addressed to Amy with the compliments 
and regrets of Mr. and Mrs. Vergne de la 
Vergne, written in her clear, bold hand. 

Mrs. Dayton had taken precaution against 
the dullness that she knew would ensue after 
so much excitement, by having Vera and 
Hubert accompany them in their gorgeously- 
decorated “ Drawing-Room Special ” to 


86 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


New York, and the entertainment their 
presence afforded enlivened what otherwise 
would have been a spiritless journey. 

Quickly as the arrangements for the wed- 
ding had been perfected, it did not inter- 
fere with Mrs. Dayton’s finding time to 
advise her daughter not to return to America 
without a christening and a nurse. “ There 
is nothing so binding to a union as children, 
my dear,” she had said, and Florence 
understood. 

The notable event was duly reported in 
all the daily papers, each devoting a page 
to the descriptions and illustrations. Among 
the latter was a picture of Florence taken 
from a very flattering photograph, together 
with a likeness of Vergne’s handsome face. 
The wealth, beauty, and amiability of the 
bride, the eligibility of the groom, and the 
splendor of the occasion, which was attended 
by the most select of Chicago’s four hun- 
dred, were thoroughly written up and became 
the talk of the town for many days. 

Mrs. Dayton had bent all her energies to 
the consummation of her desire until her 
ambition was attained. She had seen the 
nobility of Vergne’s character, and the easy 
influence she could gain over him, and with 
such a one she had determined Florence 


THE DIPLOMAT. 


87 


should pass her life. Well she knew the 
cause of Amy’s illness, but it mattered not 
to her. It only annoyed her that it had 
occurred to occasion comment. She had in- 
structed Florence, under any circumstances, 
to prolong her sojourn abroad, and with 
credentials to open the doors of society to 
them that they might not be bored with 
each other’s company, and also with the 
prestige the Daytons expected to gain from 
the old established house of the de la Ver- 
gnes in London, she felt that success had 
crowned all her efforts ; so when the last 
guest had departed, she was glad to rest 
from the long-continued strain. 

' To avoid the fatigue attending the formal 
reception of subsequent calls, Mrs. Dayton 
found it convenient to draw upon her usual 
resource, and, pleading illness, left that duty 
to be performed by her husband’s relatives 
and her paid companion. She appeared but 
seldorruin society during the season, desiring 
to escape any reference to Amy’s condition, 
which soon became a matter of extreme 
solicitude to her friends. 


CHAPTER IX. 


MADISON AVENUE. 

More than a year had passed since the 
young Mrs. Dayton had been at the point of 
death. As her recovery seemed slow, the 
family physician had suggested a change of 
climate, and the home on Fifth avenue had 
been given up. Upon her return from the 
South where she had spent a part of the 
winter, she and Hubert had accompanied 
the bridal-party to New York, where later 
they were rejoined by Edmund, who had 
preferred the quiet of their boarding-house 
on Madison avenue to hotel life, during a 
season of stock manipulations on Wall 
Street, in which he needed the assistance of 
his trustworthy brother. 

For years Edmund Dayton had practiced 
his financial jugglery so cleverly that all 
thought of the ultimate result to the country 
was lost by the people in admiration of his 
amassing the colossal fortune, the accumu- 
lation of which was to help to bring many 
to ruin. While carrying forward his vast 
schemes, his great generosity had made him 
so popular that any attempt at investigation 


Madison avenue. 


89 


had served, under his clever management, 
only to turn the tide of public opinion against 
the investigators, thus convincing the public 
that they "were attacking him merely for 
their own private interests. 

Times were good, and the people had 
been so well satisfied that they had not real- 
ized that he was constantly draining the 
pockets of the poor as skilfully and pleas- 
antly as did the far-famed Robin Hood, 
whose greater merit lay in robbing only the 
rich. In times of distress, his liberal and 
frequent donations, generally made public, 
had won for him the gratitude of the poor for 
bestowing upon them a small share of the 
immense fortune which he had amassed 
through their simplicity. But even these 
and kindred displays of generosity gradually 
lost their power to blind the people to the fact 
that the great wealth in which the country 
abounded was unequally distributed. It was 
found that capital had always the advantage 
from the law, which was intended to protect 
all alike, and through skilful manipulation 
was fast being concentrated in the hands of 
a few whose allied forces had grown despotic 
in power. Labor, having begun to feel the 
effect of the despotism of wealth, had be- 
come restive under the iron hand of monop- 


90 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


oly and the consequent inequality of rights. 
Thus the gathering discontent had resulted 
in a series of strikes, which finally involved 
the employes of the Great American Rail- 
road. 

Edmund Dayton was as difficult to find 
by the reporters when any important issue 
of the day was being discussed as he was 
easy of access when popularity was to be 
gained. As a result, the general manager, 
who was liberally paid for assuming the 
responsibilities of the corporation, bore all 
the odium which public opinion attached to 
many of its doubtful transactions. But, in 
his own family, Edmund occasionally allowed 
himself to express his thoughts ; and when 
he was asked by Vera what he would do 
with the strikers who refused to work for 
the wages he paid them, he replied : “There 
are plenty of others to take their places, and 
when the strikers’ cupboards are empty, 
hunger will bring them to their senses more 
quickly than any argument we could ad- 
vance.” 

“ But that is so cruel,” objected Vera, 
with a look of sympathy for the oppressed. 

“ You do not understand,” he said ; “ we 
pay them all the wages we consider they 
earn. If you had as much to do with that 


MADISON AVENUE. 


91 


class as I have you would soon lose your 
interest in them. They are never satisfied, 
and, as a rule, the more you concede to them 
the more they will demand.” 

He seemed to forget that it was only 
human nature to be discontented with the 
present when one could see future benefits 
within one’s grasp by making an effort. He 
spoke of the people as if they were subjects, 
and he their king. He did not take into 
consideration that the men who were forced 
to share in the reported losses of the com- 
pany during hard times were given no por- 
tion in the profits (the amount of which 
was usually suppressed), or that those human 
creatures, whom he would starve like animafs 
at his will, were his equals in the sight of 
God and the Constitution of his country. 

Thoughts like these flitted through Vera’s 
mind, but she could not readily find words 
to express their depth. She had always 
looked upon Edmund as generous and kind, 
and knew that he was popular ; but it was 
impossible, after such a revelation of his 
ideas, to conceal from herself his supreme 
selfishness, so she remained silent, lying 
listlessly upon the divan, with Tiny curled 
up by her side. 

Edmund was now on the point of making 


92 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


another large deal, just previous to a con- 
gressional election, and it was necessary for 
him to have the assistance of Congress to 
push his schemes to a successful issue. He 
had called about him all his aides-de-camp, 
and was now deeply interested in conversa- 
tion with Hubert upon the subject. 

Vera was suddenly aroused from dream- 
land by hearing her husband say with great 
disgust : “ Why, the man has no more idea 
of statesmanship and its requirements than 
Vera’s dog there.” 

Tiny lazily opened one eye and closed it 
again with a knowing wink, as much as to 
say : “ I understand ; you can’t fool an old 
dog, especially a rat-terrier ; ” and, giving a 
little contemptuous sniff, snugged closer to 
his mistress. 

Edmund replied : “ Nevertheless, he’s our 
man, Hu. He’s a good speaker, looks well, 
and is a popular fellow. Besides, we pre- 
pare his speeches for him, and about half 
the congressmen can’t comprehend the sub- 
ject matter any more than the dog you 
allude to, and will be easily persuaded, par- 
ticularly as they will be under obligation 
to our corporation for pointers, and other 
benefits which they do not hesitate to 
accept. With our man to represent the 


MADISON AVENUE. 


93 


district, and our other candidates already in 
the State judiciary, our bills will be pushed 
through without any trouble. The only 
thing for the present is to get his nomina- 
tion assured. I want you to draw eighty 
thousand dollars through the different 
banks, in sums of a few thousand each, 
which you will take with you to Chicago 
and keep in a private safe ; and when our 
man, Mertens, calls upon you for money, 
just hand him out any sum he may desire, 
without asking any questions or taking any 
receipts, or having any witness. If that 
amount is not sufficient for him, let him 
draw again ; they are a hungry lot this year. 
You will hold no conversation whatever 
with him upon the subject. He understands 
his business thoroughly andean be trusted.” 

Hubert was so accustomed to receiving 
his brother’s instructions mechanically that 
he wasted no words in questioning, particu- 
larly as he felt that the less he knew about 
the matter the safer he would be. It was 
not his business. He had allowed himself 
to become a mere machine in his brother’s 
enterprises, and Edmund, in addition to re- 
warding him with accustomed liberality, had 
so directed his investment in stocks that 
they had netted him a handsome fortune. 


94 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


Vera had largely increased her private for- 
tune from the same source, but not through 
her brother-in-law’s generosity, however ; as, 
upon one occasion, when he attempted to 
play upon her what he was pleased to term a 
practical joke by giving her a false “pointer,” 
thereby inducing her to stake her entire 
fortune upon a margin, she had unexpect- 
edly produced her bank-account, which, to 
his surprise, amounted to ten times its 
original sum, although she did not tell 
Edmund that it was wholly through the 
misunderstanding of her broker who, doing 
business for Edmund, had accidentally put 
her name upon the winning side. Edmund 
recalled her first game of whist, in which 
she proved herself so ignorant, yet so success- 
ful, and having witnessed several interferences 
of providence in her behalf, and being in- 
clined to superstition, concluded that there 
was some special power acting in her favor. 

Vera had tried to nurse back into life her 
old love for her husband, and to begin again, 
in remembrance of his tenderness during 
her illness ; but, as she became more sub- 
missive, he increased his exactions, and, at 
times, she was wretchedly unhappy. “He 
was so unreasonable,” she thought, and she 
was worn and weary with it all. 


MADISON AVENUE. 


95 


Mrs. Van Alen’s was one of the most 
fashionable boarding-houses on Madison 
Avenue. Upon Vera’s return to New York, 
she had taken up her residence there, with 
her husband and his brother, who, while 
they were alone, had enjoyed seats at the 
family table of some old acquaintances — Mr. 
and Mrs. MacDonald and their daughter 
Margery — through whose friendship and 
their own wealth the Daytons had secured 
all the privileges of a luxurious home. 

Mr. MacDonald was a native of Scotland, 
whence he had come to America in his early 
boyhood. By thrift he had accumulated 
sufficient means to enable him to buy large 
tracts of timber-lands which had been taken 
up from the Government for the purpose 
of selling them to lumber speculators, and, 
in that manner, he had acquired valuable 
holdings along the Mississippi River. Dur- 
ing the past few years the family had spent 
the greater portion of their time in New 
York. The relations between Margery and 
Mrs. MacDonald, who was a second wife 
and stepmother to the daughter, had never 
been very pleasant ; but no one had sus- 
pected it from the amiable terms in which 
they addressed each other. 

Vera, who was still in delicate health, 


96 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


would occasionally join in a game of cards 
with the MacDonalds, and Edmund, while 
playing partner with the handsome wife 
of Mr. MacDonald, would usually enjoy 
a quiet flirtation. In the meantime, Hu- 
bert, and Margery, the daughter, seemed to 
find much pleasure in each other’s society; 
but Vera’s only feeling, if she had any at all 
upon the subject, was one of relief from his 
usual unreasonable domination. 

In the early days of their marriage Hubert 
had attempted to train his wife into very 
liberal views of the rights of manhood, its 
different status from that of the other sex, 
and the impossibility of a man’s living the 
perfect life so many women expect of their 
husbands, until she had gradually become 
cognizant of the ideas which had at first 
shocked her. But being by nature both 
docile and incurious, she had never sought to 
appeal from his teachings, or to learn that 
what she felt was not necessary for her to 
know. She was never jealous; she admired 
beautiful women, and only regretted that in 
figure she was not herself large and com- 
manding, since that type of beauty seemed 
attractive to her husband. 

Margery had many admirers, but had pre- 
ferred remaining single. Some months after 


MADISON AVENUE. 


97 


Veras return from the South, as all were 
retiring for the night, she was surprised at 
an exhibition of Hubert’s rage and jealousy 
of his brother Edmund, who, he declared, 
in a very excited manner, was trying to 
kiss Margery as they were ascending the 
stairs. 

“What does it matter to you,” said Vera, 
“if they like? She is certainly pretty 
enough to kiss,” she added lightly, knowing 
her brother-in-law’s susceptibility. 

But Hubert had entirely forgotten him- 
self in his jealous rage, and, cautiously open- 
ing the door, he followed his brother and 
Margery upstairs to the floor above, leaving 
his wife confused and wondering. 

“Could it be possible?” she thought. 
They had separated once before for a sim- 
ilar reason, and she could not believe he 
would dare subject her again to such an 
indignity. Yet there was no mistaking his 
conduct. Vera was never suspicious, but 
sometimes truths flashed across her brain, 
and in this instance she knew that she was 
right in her belief. When Hubert returned 
with the expression of a baffled animal in 
his face, she said, looking him straight in 
the eyes, and too abruptly for him to con- 
trol himself : “ What interest have you in 


98 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

Margery that you act like a madman if 
your brother kisses her?” 

The blood surged into his face ; his eyes 
fell before her penetrating glance. He hes- 
itated a moment only ; there was no need 
of further explanation ; he stood a self-con- 
victed man, and began at once to make 
excuses. 

Vera’s only thought was to get away 
from it all, and she expressed her intention 
to do so at once. All the night Hubert 
alternately pleaded and threatened, but her 
indignation was too great. She had suffered 
for years from his overbearing nature, the 
cruelty of which found its only palliation in 
her final belief in his conjugal faithfulness. 
After arguing bitterly until day dawned, 
Hubert saw that nothing could change her 
resolution. 

In the morning he lost no time in con- 
fessing to Margery his difficulty, who, filled 
with apprehension of exposure, went to 
Vera’s apartments and, upon her knees, 
begged her not to betray her to her father 
or her mother, who, she said, would turn 
her into the street if they learned of her 
conduct. 

“ I have no intention, Margery, of saying 
a word to anyone. You can have Hubert if 


MADISON AVENUE. 


99 


you want him ; I am sure I shall not stand 
in the way. But as long as I am compelled 
to remain in this house,” she added, “ please 
be kind enough to avoid me as I shall you.’’ 

“Oh, Mrs. Dayton,” Margery cried, thor- 
oughly ashamed at the calm manner in which 
Vera treated the matter : “Do not think so 
badly of me. If you only knew how empty 
and uninteresting our home is, with my step- 
mother ever prejudicing my father against 
me.” 

“ I do pity you, Margery, and any woman 
who forgets what is due to herself ; and I 
will give you and Hubert all the oppor- 
tunity in the world to repair the mistake you 
have made. You need not have the slight- 
est fear of exposure from me.” 

She could hardly imagine how two people 
on the same social plane could be guilty 
without mutual affection, and she presumed 
they had experienced more or less regard 
for each other. 

Margery looked doubtingly at her, and 
Mrs. Dayton said, abruptly, “Now, I shall 
have to ask you to excuse me.” 

Margery could only accept her dismissal, 
hardly comprehending how a woman whom 
she had wronged as she had wronged Mrs. 
Dayton, and who held her reputation in the 


100 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


hollow of her hand, could be so generous. 
With a feeling of fear she left her, and 
sought Hubert in his Wall Street office, 
where she related to him the interview. 
Hubert’s face grew very white as he listened. 
He assured Margery, however, that she 
need have no fear that his wife would break 
her word when once given. “She’s one 
woman in a thousand, Margery ; ” he said, 
“ I have known her to submit to my devilish 
temper without a murmur, when she could 
just as well have averted trouble for herself 
by slightly misleading me.” 

The words of praise created in Margery a 
hatred for Mrs. Dayton, as her fear grew 
less. Instead of avoiding Vera, she boldly 
confronted her, and Margery’s stolen inter- 
views with Hubert had become such a source 
of constant irritation to the wife, who could 
not help being aware of them, that when 
Sunday came she mischievously proposed to 
Margery to accompany her to church. 

Vera was not a member of any denomina- 
tion, but she loved to sing in the grand 
masses composed by the old masters, and 
she had long been a member of the choir in 
a prominent Catholic church in New York. 
To her, religion, music, poetry, were one, 
and singing was an inspiration to prayer. 


MADISON AVENUE. 


lOI 


She prayed in her own way — worshipping in 
unspeakable thought. God was very near 
to her in those moments. But, to-day, as 
she sat erect by Margery’s side, and saw her 
upon her knees bending over her prayei- 
book, the emptiness and the mockery of the 
ceremony almost caused her to strike the 
volume from the daintily-gloved fingers. 
Yet she had no hatred of the woman, and, 
outwardly, she treated her with her usual 
courtesy; but she wondered how it was pos- 
sible for her to appear so boldly and yet un- 
consciously formal. She had understood 
from Hubert the folly of men, but she could 
not comprehend how a woman, surrounded 
as Margery was with wealth and luxury and 
suitors for her hand, could take part in such 
base folly. It was, in the abstract, something 
she had given little thought to, but it was 
quite a different matter when brought before 
her in the concrete, and she was justly 
indignant. 

In her performance of the charitable 
duties she had imposed upon herself, and 
her desire for intellectual progress, Vera’s 
life had been a very busy one, and indif- 
ference to society had kept her from coming 
into large and close contact with the world. 
In worldly matters she was, therefore. 


102 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


scarcely more than a child. Her husband 
had often taunted her with her blind con- 
fidence in people, while praising himself for 
his careful protection of her and his free- 
dom from the petty vices of mankind, failing 
to recognize that there was no room for 
them in his overflowing nature. 

Hubert was not a church-going man, and 
Sunday, without a diversion, was monoton- 
ous to him. Upon the return of Mrs. 
Dayton and Margery from church, his wrath 
might be described as at white-heat. He 
accused his wife of all the contemptible 
meannesses of disposition that his copious 
flow of language and sinister mood could 
devise. She knew, of course, that she had 
robbed him of Margery’s society, save for 
this, his manner was incomprehensible to 
her, and she made no effort to understand 
it. She had decided to leave New York 
without her husband’s knowledge, if neces- 
sary,' as she had frankly told him, and 
nothing could change that determination. 

A few days later, as she sank back on the 
cushion of the drawing-room car, and saw 
him passing from her sight as the train 
slowly pulled out from the depot, she said 
sadly: “ Good-bye — good-bye. I hope I 
may never see you again ! ” 


CHAPTER X. 


A BROKEN HEART. 

On the morning of the wedding, the maid, 
who had left the room for a few moments, 
returned to find the gown, which Amy was 
to appear in, upon the chair where she had 
placed it, and her young mistress lying 
white and senseless upon the floor. Mrs. 
Robertson was hastily summoned, who, upon 
failing in her attempts to resuscitate her 
daughter, had sent for a physician. He 
had arrived just as the carriage, which was 
to convey Amy to join the bridal-party, 
drew up before their residence, and word 
was at once sent by the footman of her 
inability to participate in the ceremony. 

The physician, greatly puzzled by her 
condition, accompanied, as it was, by every 
evidence of perfect physical health, could 
only attribute it to some nervous shock ; 
but as no one could trace it to any source, 
he had worked over her in a state of uncer- 
tainty until her eyes opened with a look 
of unconscious pleading as she uttered the 
words which gave him a clue. 

^‘You smile so sweetly, Mrs. Dayton, 


104 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


won’t you please take that dagger from my 
heart?” said Amy, looking up into the 
kindly face of the old physician as she for a 
moment opened her eyes. 

Bravely she had struggled to conceal her 
love for Vergne, deceiving even those who 
had been most positive that the two young 
people cared for each other ; but the strain 
had been too great, and, as her eyes rested 
upon the robe, her imagination pictured the 
ceremony that she was to take part in, which 
meant death to all her hopes, and without 
warning even to herself she had fallen 
heavily to the floor. 

Humoring her delirious fancy, the old 
doctor soothingly replied to her pleading 
remark: “ Yes, my child;” pretending at the 
same time to withdraw something as he 
pressed his hand upon her heart to feel its 
pulsation. A deep sigh, ending in a groan, 
was the only sign of life she gave as she 
relapsed into unconsciousness. For six 
weeks she hovered between life and 
death, betraying in the disjointed phrases 
of delirium the depth of her love for Vergne, 
until there could be no doubt as to the cause 
of her illness. The physician, fearing incur- 
able insanity, gave her case special attention 
until after the crisis was reached and she 


A BROKEN HEART. 


105 


began to mend. At the end of the fourth 
month she was pronounced convalescent, 
but as the weeks passed and she took no 
interest in life, a change of scene was advised 
as the only means of arousing her from her 
apathetic condition. 

Upon inquiring her preference regarding 
locality, her only reply was that it did not 
matter where she went. A trip to Cali- 
fornia was proposed, and for the first time 
she evinced an interest by exclaiming: “No! 
No! No!” A look of horror accompanied 
her words, ^ followed instantly by a settled 
gloom. In a vague sort of way she felt that 
the ocean was already between herself and 
Vergne, and she could not bear the thought 
of the continent also intervening. In her 
weakened condition it was hard to imagine 
that their separation was final; it seemed 
as if their souls must be forever united — 
that God had joined them and no man 
could put them asunder. 

In the flesh she wished never to see him 
again; to her he was as dead. Surely, there 
could be neither sin nor treachery in so 
thinking of him, and in allowing tender 
memories of their childhood and of the love 
which she knew had been stolen from her 
to comfort her aching heart — for instinct 


I06 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

ively she felt that such love could never be 
transferred. 

She groaned in spirit over the false pride 
that had so effectually concealed from 
Vergne the true state of her feelings, while 
she justified herself by the thought that 
she could not have done otherwise. Thus, 
alternately blaming herself for her coldness 
and Vergne for his weakness, she passed 
the hours when aroused to a sense of her 
condition. 


CHAPTER XI. 


BY THE SEA. 

The season had begun at Long Branch, 
the resort which had once been so fashion- 
able, but was now on the decline. Mrs. 
Robertson had taken a retired cottage 
near the sea, where her daughter, who had 
apparently lost all interest in social matters, 
was passively content in comparative soli- 
tude. In her apathy, her only wish seemed 
to be to get away — even from her mother^ 
and to slip down to the shore. There she 
could be found nearly every day, seated upon 
the beach, looking out over the sea with an 
expression of intense longing, as she gazed 
upon the restless and everchanging waters 
which seemed to her to bring messages from 
the soul abroad, and to carry back to that 
soul the thoughts with which she freighted 
them. No one would have recognized in 
the pale, sad face of the beautiful woman 
one who, for a brief season, had been the 
reigning belle of Chicago. 

Sisters Aloyce and Mary Charles, who 
were touring along the coast, in the interest 
of the Order that controlled the convent 


io8 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


from which Amy and Florence had grad- 
uated, had called at the cottage. In response 
to the summons that was sent to her in her 
favorite retreat, Amy appeared, and affection- 
ately greeted the good sisters. In the 
course of conversation, Mrs. Robertson, who 
before her daughter’s entrance had been 
relating the circumstance of her illness, 
mentioned her regret at soon being com- 
pelled to return to Chicago, thereupon, 
Sister Aloyce suggested that Amy should 
pay them a visit, a suggestion to which Amy 
responded, eagerly accepting the good sis- 
ters’ invitation, in the impulse to remain near 
the sea-shore. 

In the quiet of convent life, with its sooth- 
ing influence, the summer passed restfully 
by the sea. Amy’s health began to return, 
and her mind was finally pronounced quite 
restored from the shock it had received. 
In the performance of the unselfish tasks 
she set herself, and her sweet and tender 
solicitude for the comfort of others, regard- 
less of her own, she seemed to become 
wholly reconciled to the conditions that fate 
decreed. The spiritual beauty of her coun- 
tenance at this period of retreat from the 
world became a matter of comment by the 
visitors at the convent, as well as among 


BY THE SEA. 


109 


the sisters. In contact with her, one felt 
in the presence of a bright spirit rather 
than of an earthly being. Society had lost 
all charm for her, and to the many attempts 
of her friends to induce her to return to it, 
she had responded with indifference, pre- 
ferring to remain on at the convent 


CHAPTER XII. 


SOUL TO SOUL. 

Six months had elapsed since the Dayton- 
de la Vergne nuptials. Venice, Rome, 
Paris, and all the chief European points 
of interest had been visited by the young 
married pair, with a prolonged stay in Paris, 
where Florence had spent much of her time 
in the hands of Monsieur Worth. A 
weekly correspondence between mother and 
daughter had kept her informed of the 
latest society events, but all mention of 
Amy had been put upon a separate sheet ; 
therefore, when Florence gave Vergne her 
letters to read, as she sometimes did, they 
contained no news concerning Amy, except 
upon two occasions, when Mrs. Dayton had 
mentioned her illness as a light matter, and 
later, her recovery, and the fact that she 
was spending the season at Long Branch, 
where she presumed “she was enjoying her- 
self as usual.” 

Vergne and Florence had been some time 
in London sight-seeing and pleasure-seek- 
ing. He had deplored the fact that his wife 
was possessed of such a weakly gonstitution. 


SOUL TO SOUL. 


Ill 


lor every-day association could not fail to 
reveal her physical imperfections ; and, in 
her present interesting condition, she exacted 
from him attentions which were sometimes 
irksome. They had been sent abroad with 
the expectation, strong in Vergne, that he 
was soon to assume the duties of the posi- 
tion Mrs. Dayton had mentioned, and the 
liberal salary he drew each month under 
protest — not having earned it — added to his 
growing dissatisfaction. Under the circum- 
stances, he began to be possessed by a rest- 
lessness, and a desire to return to America. 

Day after day, when not engaged in at- 
tendance upon his wife, he found himself 
wandering toward the shipping wharves, 
and, as he stood upon the decks of the ves- 
sels about to sail for America, his eyes look- 
ing wistfully across that broad expanse, an 
uncontrollable longing would come upon him 
to return. Was it the soul of the woman 
that had gone out to meet its mate across 
the sea that attracted his yearning spirit 
in sympathetic communion ? 

Florence, alarmed at his restlessness and 
the wish which he so frequently expressed, 
remembering her mothers advice, raised 
numerous objections, and exerted herself to 
divert his mind. She wrote fully to her 


II2 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


mother, informing her of the situation, and 
asking for further instructions. 

Mrs. Dayton now saw the necessity of mak- 
ing use of her husband in the success of her 
schemes, and she artfully suggested that he 
should arrange matters so as to keep Vergne 
abroad, hinting at his former preference for 
Amy as likely to cause trouble in the future. 
When his wife mentioned the subject, Mr. 
Dayton bethought him of the house of the 
de la Vergnes, which had for many gen- 
erations been established in London, and of 
the prestige that would be given by the 
announcement of Vergne’s name as the chief 
representative, or second vice-president, of 
their great corporation in that city. Again, 
Vergne was a man who would inspire con- 
fidence, and to Edmund he was valuable in 
his schemes, as a figure-head, if nothing more ; 
hence, he acquiesced in his wife’s arrange- 
ments, knowing that the attaches of the 
London office were so thoroughly trained in 
the routine of the work that Vergne would be 
able to handle affairs without immediate 
danger of any complication. Her arguments 
thus prevailed, and resulted in his sending a 
cable-message recalling the general manager, 
authorizing Vergne to assume pro tem. his 
duties, and to await instructions. 

The galling sense of dependence being 


SOUL TO SOUL. 


II3 

removed, Vergne became comparatively 
reconciled to remain in London, feeling it 
incumbent upon him to discharge the duties 
for which he had long received payment. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE GOLDEN GATE. 

It was Thanksgiving Day. As the train 
which had borne the young Mrs. Dayton 
across the continent was speeding along, 
the contrast between the green-carpeted 
valleys and balmy atmosphere of California, 
and the bleak fields and biting air of the 
eastern land she had left behind, struck 
soothingly upon her senses, as if it breathed 
a promise of a similar change in her own life. 

Standing, a few hours later, upon the deck 
of the ferry-boat which plies between Oak- 
land and San Francisco, she listened to the 
music of the Italians who played for the 
diversion of, the passengers as they were 
carried to and fro. As she gazed upon 
the broad expanse of the bay, bathed in a 
golden flood of sunshine, and watched the 
tall-masted ships plowing along the winding 
channel that leads through the far-famed 
Golden Gate out upon the open sea, her 
expressive face glowed with enthusiasm at 
the unsurpassable scene. 

Mrs. Dayton had become a great travel- 
ler in the past eight years, and in the few 


THE GOLDEN GATE. 


US 

months of her residence in Colorado she 
had regained such perfect health and spirits 
that a trip across the continent caused her 
as little fatigue as she would have expe- 
rienced in taking the “ L” road in New York 
from up-town down to Wall Street; and, 
with the stimulus of the new world before 
her, she was ready and eager to commence 
sight-seeing immediately upon her arrival. 

She had come from Colorado with a party 
of tourists whose acquaintance she had made 
while sojourning there, and with whom, if 
possible, she had arranged to take up her 
residence. 

When, however, they reached their des- 
tination on Sutter Street, Mrs. Dayton met 
with her first disappointment, being unable 
to find suitable apartments, or to obtain 
board in the house. After engaging rooms 
temporarily and inquiring for the best res- 
taurant in the city, she was directed to the 
Maison Dord on Kearny Street, which place 
she found without difficulty. 

While partaking of the usual Thanksgiv- 
ing dinner, served with all the ceremony of 
the well-known restaurant, her attention was 
attracted by the continuous throng of women, 
many of whom were showily dressed, as if 
for some festive occasion, and all apparently 


Il6 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

promenading in the same direction. Upon 
inquiry, Vera learned from the waiter at- 
tending her that they were going to the 
matinee at the California Theatre. 

Not knowing of anything better to do for 
an afternoon’s entertainment, she decided, 
after finishing her dinner, that she would 
follow them to the theatre, where she knew 
from the cast in the advertisements that she 
would see many of New York’s familiar 
faces. As the curtain rose upon the first 
act, she forgot that she was in a strange 
city, and remained contented through the 
long play, which was not finished until nearly 
six o’clock. 

The performance having lasted until long 
after the street lamps had been lighted, and, 
it being late, Mrs. Dayton concluded that 
before returning home she would have 
supper at the restaurant where she had 
dined. 

“ What kind of wine will madam be pleased 
to have?” inquired the polite waiter as she 
gave him her order. 

“Bring me tea, no wine,” replied Vera 
with dignity. With which order the waiter 
complied with the usual suave air of neither 
seeing nor thinking of his customer; but 
beneath his conventional exterior there was 


THE GOLDEN GATE. 


II7 


much wonderment, when, after finishing her 
supper, she asked to be directed to the 
Sutter Street car, which a San Franciscoan 
would have known to be near at hand to the 
right. 

“A stranger and alone,” he thought, “so 
petite and pretty.” It was beyond his com- 
prehension until he concluded that she must 
be one of those independent young Amer- 
icans, who come and go as they please, 
chaperon or no chaperon. For the voluble 
information which he made haste to furnish, 
Mrs. Dayton thanked him, and giving him 
the customary “ tip ” she took the cable as 
instructed and found, on reaching her new 
home, that her friends were somewhat con- 
cerned at her absence. 

Her apartments were not satisfactory, 
but, being engaged each day in sight-seeing, 
the novelty of the situation, together with 
the mild seductiveness of the climate, lulled 
her into such a state of indifference that it 
was a week or more before she began to 
desire a more suitable home. Although 
she had several letters of introduction to 
prominent people, Mrs. Dayton felt disin- 
clined to make her presence known. She 
had come to California to be free and 
independent, resolving to sever all connec- 


Il8 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

tion with Hubert; yet she was at loss to 
know how to overcome his stronger will- 
power. Every vestige of love for him had 
disappeared, and in its place had come a 
great pity, knowing, as she did, how he loved 
her. But the last days of their residence 
together had been to her like living in a tomb. 
Marriage is a divine ordinance, or so it has 
been written ; but, she thought, was that 
ceremony divine which bound together for 
life two beings of temperaments so incom- 
patible as to make existence together a liv- 
ing torture? Was there anything divine in 
the life her brother-in-law and his wife were 
leading, each deceiving the other? Was 
there anything divine in the marriage of 
Vergne and Florence, which Vera, knowing 
the love that existed between Amy and 
Vergne, felt to be a wrong to all parties 
concerned ? She realized that her own 
marriage had been a nearer approach than 
either of them to compliance with the law 
of God and of Nature, but how wretched 
had it not proved? Yet marriages wholly 
at variance with the divine intention were 
taking place daily, and daughters were being 
educated with but one ultimate idea, “to 
marry, and to marry well.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE RESCUE. 

San Francisco was alight. Though the 
principal and ordinary places of amusement 
had long been closed, the underground 
“dives” and other disreputable resorts were 
still open for the class known as “ night- 
birds,” opium-fiends, gamblers, random pleas- 
ure-seekers, and night-prowlers of a still 
more dangerous kind, in which that city 
of all nations, “the Paris of America,” 
abounds. 

It was in the “tenderloin district;” the 
street was wholly deserted, except for the 
solitary figure that stood on the corner, 
silently waiting to tempt the belated hungry 
with his steaming hot tamales. A woman 
of the brunette type came staggering up a 
flight of stone steps leading from one of the 
infamous resorts of that vile quarter. If she 
had ever been attractive, the dissipated look 
on her bloated features and the disfiguring 
yellowness of her bleached hair had entirely 
obliterated every evidence of it. 

She was followed by a half-dozen or more 
young men, all, like herself, under the influ- 


120 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


ence of liquor. They were evidently mak- 
ing the young woman the butt of their 
drunken ribaldry and coarse jests, pushing 
and jostling each other against her — growing 
madder and more threatening as the exhilar- 
ation of the cold night air added stimulus 
to their animal spirits, until the miserable 
creature was almost sobered by fear. As 
one of her tormentors sprang toward her with 
the savage ferocity of a hungry beast of prey, 
she eluded his grasp by a quick movement ; 
glancing pleadingly at the tamale vendor, 
but reading no pity in the stolid face of the 
Italian — evidently familiar with such scenes 
— she flung herself in terror at the feet of 
one of the group who seemed less inebriated 
than the others, imploring his protection. 

His companions, thinking this a capital 
joke, crowded closer around the frightened 
woman ; but the one to whom she had 
appealed stepped quickly between her and 
her assailants, saying, in a commanding 
tone : “ Stop ! This has gone far enough, 
boys. She is a woman, be she what she 
may. We should all be ashamed of our- 
selves to persecute helplessness in this 
brutal fashion.’* 

“Ho! ho! hear him!” shouted the en- 
tire chorus derisively. “ He thinks himself 


THE RESCUE. 


I2I 


a young Jesus,” said one of their number, 
with a jeer. 

“No; he doesn’t think anything of the 
kind, nor is he one bit better than any of 
you, boys ; but I say to you, who are tortur- 
ing this poor creature, let him among you 
who is purer than she cast the first stone.” 

Somewhat subdued by his earnestness, 
yet still hilarious, one of them said : “ Oh, 
come on, boys ; leave him wis’ hie friend.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” laughed all in chorus at 
the coarse jest, but looking somewhat crest- 
fallen, they repeated; “ Le’sh leave him wis’ 
hie friend.” And they went on their way, 
shouting and singing, each one striking a 
key of his own — making the night hideous 
with their revels. 

The woman who had thus escaped their 
persecution was still weeping bitterly at the 
feet of her rescuer. Rising, she thanked him 
for his timely assistance, and disappeared into 
a drug-store in a prominent location of the 
district, where she had been in the habit of 
purchasing morphine, and where she always 
received it without a question. 

Nearly sobered from the scene through 
which she had just passed, she entered her 
miserable room in the building near-by, 
realizing that she had reached the lowest 


122 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


depth of degradation, and determined to 
end her life. She had long been accus- 
tomed to taking small doses of the drug, 
which brought oblivion when nature could 
endure no longer ; but this time she would 
double the portion, knowing that it would 
be sufficient to bring eternal rest. 

In the half-orphan asylum was a little 
baby girl, the only thing that had made her 
cling to life, just as her own poor mother 
had lived in poverty and starvation to save 
her; and for what? To become a victim 
to man’s brute passions and follow a life of 
shame. Oh, mother, dear,” she cried ; 
“ why did not I, too, die upon that bitter 
day when you left me alone in the world ?” 
Breathing a pathetic prayer for protection 
for her little one, she swallowed the poison ; 
and as the narcotic gradually worked upon 
her system, she finally succumbed to its 
deadly influence, and fell to the floor. 

The heavy sound of her fall attracted the 
attention of the keeper of the house, who, 
upon entering the hall and seeing the light 
through the transom, knocked upon the 
door. Receiving no answer, she succeeded 
with some difficulty in effecting an entrance, 
and at once summoned a physician, who 
came accompanied by a friendly reporter 


THE RESCUE. 


23 


on the hunt for news. Seeing the woman’s 
condition, which the doctor at once pro- 
nounced hopeless, the reporter did not wait 
for further confirmation of her death, but 
wrote it up in anticipation. The morning 
paper contained, under a sensational head- 
ing, a detailed account of the suicide of 
another poor unfortunate, tired of life ; a 
courtesan of the town, who called herself 
Madge Morton, but whose real name, it was 
learned, was Leone Marlowe. 

The announcement, however, proved to 
be premature. The young physician who 
had been hastily called in, recognized in the 
woman his acquaintance of less than two 
hours before, whom he had defended. His 
first impulse was to do nothing to restore 
her, as he felt that death by her own hand 
must be preferable to the life she was 
leading, and it would be cruel to make any 
effort to save her; but, being a recent gradu- 
ate, the desire to experiment was strong. 
Upon placing his ear close to her heart in 
auscultation and applying percussive tests, 
he determined that there was yet life. 
Taking off his coat he went to work with 
a will, inflating the lungs to cause artificial 
respiration, injecting digitalis and whiskey 
to keep up the action of the heart, whipping 


124 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


the extremities, and using all means to wear 
off the narcotic effect. After two hours of 
indefatigable exertion he was rewarded by 
the final resuscitation of the patient. 

“Where am I? What has happened?” 
she exclaimed, as if waking from a dream. 
The young doctor replied: “You have been 
very ill, and you must rest quietly for a while.’* 
Then searching her effects he appropriated 
all drugs of a poisonous nature, and, when 
satisfied with the result of his labor, put on 
his coat, from which had dropped unnoticed 
upon her bed the evening paper of the day 
before. After a plain talk, in which he en- 
couraged her to get away from the life she 
was leading, he left, promising to see her 
again in the morning, if she would follow 
his directions. 

As the morning dawned, Leone gradually 
regained full possession of her senses. 
Lying weak and sore from the efforts the 
young doctor had made to restore her, her 
eyes fell upon the paper which he had 
dropped at the foot of the bed. Reaching 
for it indifferently, she listlessly scanned its 
pages. Her face suddenly changed to an 
expression of intense interest as she read of 
the death of a miserly old woman, who had 
left a fortune of nearly a million dollars, 


THE RESCUE. 


125 


realized through lucky investments during 
her long life, and that the only heir to this 
vast estate Avas one Leone Marlowe, whose 
whereabouts were as yet undiscovered, 
though the fortunate heir was supposed to 
be living in San Francisco. 

In the reaction of the narcotics and the 
excitement of the news, Leone became 
almost convulsive, and, had not the young 
doctor entered, would probably have com- 
mitted some rash deed. 

Look here, young woman, I do not 
allow any such conduct as this. What have 
you been doing to bring about this con- 
dition ? ” he asked, rather sternly, as he 
noted the wild look in her face. “ Do you 
know you are a dead woman and are sup- 
posed to be lying in the morgue at the pres- 
ent time, and I have now the disagreeable 
duty of going down to give that reporter a 
good drubbing for putting you on the list as 
the woman who lies there?” 

“What do you mean?” asked Leone, 
excitedly. 

Howard Donaldson, the young doctor, read 
to her from the morning paper of the death of 
a courtesan, who called herself Madge Mor- 
ton, but whose real name was Leone Mar- 
lowe, and who had.been taken to the morgue. 


126 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


Leone, almost too excited to speak, 
handed him the evening paper he had left. 

Read this ! ” she said, and fell back ex- 
hausted upon her pillow. 

'‘Well! Bless my soul! I congratulate 
you ; I do, indeed.” 

“And I both congratulate and thank you, 
sir, for saving me to give my helpless little 
girl protection from the world and the bene- 
fit of my good fortune. Although I do not 
know your name, I look upon you as my 
saviour, and, be assured, I shall never prove 
myself ungrateful.” 

“ Oh, that’s all right,” he said, “ we fellows 
sometimes get pretty bad when we go out 
together, but we all have sisters, or have 
had,” he added with a sigh, “ and when I 
saw you so helpless, somehow I could only 
think of my poor dead sister.” 

“ If I had only had a brother like you 
to protect me, I would not have become 
the poor, miserable outcast you found me,” 
said Leone. And, at his request, she told 
him how, when a little girl of ten in Chi- 
cago, her mother had died of starvation and 
overwork, leaving her utterly alone in the 
world, until a young married lady had come 
for her and taken her to her home, where 
she had passed two of the happiest weeks 


THE RESCUE. 


127 


of her life, but for the sorrow she felt at 
the death of her poor mother; how a sister 
of charity had come with a letter of author- 
ity from her mother s aunt, another sister, 
who was in the convent in San Francisco; 
how that dear old aunt had died just a little 
while before she was eighteen, and through 
the influence of a schoolmate she had se- 
cured a position as maid and companion to 
an elderly lady ; how she had met a gentle- 
man-friend of that schoolmate, and at his 
instigation had been taken by the girl to 
a house (of bad repute, as she had learned 
since her fall), which her friend had often 
visited. The man had made himself very 
agreeable, as men generally do when they 
are working for such an object as he had 
in view, and, finally, through those appar- 
ently harmless French dinners, which have 
proved the road to ruin for so many young 
girls, she had been drugged, and her ruin 
accomplished. 

Leone had been brought up in the Roman 
Catholic faith, and the knowledge, strong in 
her mind, of the penalties which, according 
to that doctrine, must attend even the slight- 
est shortcoming, and the consciousness of 
what she had become through the bestiality 
of that man, and the treachery of the friend 


128 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


whom she had trusted, had at first almost 
driven her to madness. Her betrayer, see- 
ing the condition of her mind, had worked 
upon it and argued with her until he had 
gained her for his mistress ; and for more 
than a year she had occupied that position, 
in the meantime unfortunately giving birth 
to a baby-girl, whom he had forced her to 
put in a foundling asylum. Tiring of her at 
last, he had deserted her to marry a wealthy 
woman of society who knew of his reputa- 
tion — yet who had spurned her as a contamin- 
ating thing when she had foolishly pleaded 
with the woman to induce him to make 
reparation by marriage for the wrong he had 
done her. Her betrayer had forced her to 
become the mistress of one of his friends. 
From that, she had rapidly descended to the 
condition in which Howard found her — a 
woman of the town. 

As she related her story — alas! so common 
— the young doctor could not but be struck 
with her weakness and helplessness, and, as 
he questioned her further, he could see that 
she had been led like a lamb to the slaughter ; 
had been taken advantage of by a scoundrel ; 
and that she was more to be pitied than 
blamed. She had drunk liquor to deaden 
the sense of her degradation, until in her 


THE RESCUE. 


129 


hardened face and bleared eyes one could 
scarcely detect a semblance of beauty. Her 
perfect form was the only attraction that 
had remained to her, and in that Howard 
could easily perceive from whence sprang 
the maddening desire of a man given to lust, 
as he knew the man to be of whom she had 
spoken. 

For a long time they conversed and 
devised means for Leone’s future ; how she 
was to secure the fortune left her, when she 
was reported dead, and was it wise, Howard 
questioned, to disturb that report now that 
circumstances had so changed for her, unless 
it became absolutely necessary. An idea 
flashed through his brain. Why not allow 
that mistake to go undisputed ? Those who 
had known her would read of her as dead, 
and he would try to assist her quietly to 
establish her identity as heir to the vast 
estate, through the sisters in Chicago who 
had taken her at the time of her mother’s 
death. He felt satisfied that he could find 
sufficient proof to convince the parties in 
charge that she was the rightful claimant, 
so that she might enjoy her wealth free 
from the knowledge of those who had known 
of her recent career. ** 

Howard suggested that she should leave 


130 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


her present quarters immediately, and after 
hurriedly packing her effects, and disguising 
herself with a thick veil while he secured a 
carriage, she prepared to depart with him. 
To satisfy any curiosity the landlady might 
feel, Howard informed her that he was 
going to take the girl to a hospital for 
“ opium-liends,” and the housekeeper, glad 
to be so easily rid of a troublesome tenant 
who had created such a sensation, thought 
no more about her. The report of her death 
remained uncontradicted. Policemen were 
ordered to “raid” the house that had 
become so notorious, and in the accumula- 
tion of trouble the landlady sold out and 
left the country ; thus baffling all efforts of 
any friends who might institute inquiry for 
Leone. 


CHAPTER XV. 


NEW ASSOCIATIONS. 

Not many days after her arrival in the 
city, Mrs. Dayton was surprised at being 
accosted on the street by a rather attractive 
lady, with dark hair and eyes, who announced 
herself as Leone, the little girl whom she 
had once befriended, and who now wished 
to call upon her again to be identified. 
Leone had seen Vera’s arrival, quiet though 
it was, announced in the papers, and, meet- 
ing her upon the street, had recognized her 
from a photograph which Mrs. Dayton had 
once sent her. 

Vera had read with pain, only a few days 
before, the account of Leone’s death by 
suicide, regretting that she had come too 
late to save her little friend whom she had 
intended looking up ; as in her childish 
neglect to answer Mrs. Dayton’s letters all 
trace of Leone had been lost. And now, as 
the young woman stood before her, and she 
recognized •in the sad, pleading eyes the 
same forsaken look of the orphan child, she 
expressed in her face a wonderment, which 
Leone interpreted correctly. 


132 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


“ Do not forsake me, Mrs. Dayton,” she 
pleaded piteously; “let me come to your 
house and tell you my story.” 

“ Come at once, my child, I will do any- 
thing in my power to serve you,” replied the 
sympathetic little woman. 

Together they went to Vera’s home, 
where Leone, with humiliation, repeated to 
her friend the story of the life through 
which she had passed, and stated the dilemma 
in which she found herself by wishing to 
allow the report of her death to remain 
uncontradicted. 

“You can save me from exposure, Mrs. 
Dayton, by identifying me to the at- 
torneys in the East; your name is a power, 
and your recommendation will not be chal- 
lenged.” 

“Yes, my poor child, and I am glad for 
once to use that name in your behalf,” she 
answered, as she wrote and addressed several 
letters which she handed to Leone. 

“There, I think these will insure you 
every consideration, and I shall write imme- 
diately to the parties, informing them of 
your intention to call upon them, so there 
will be no doubt.” 

Leone, much relieved, bade her friend 
good-bye, comforted, as she departed, by the 


NEW ASSOCIATIONS. 


133 


earnestness with which Mrs. Dayton wished 
her God-speed. 

* * * * * 

Vera had succeeded in securing what 
promised to be a pleasant home, and had 
finally domiciled herself, with the intention 
of remaining indefinitely. 

Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Murray, with their 
beautiful child, a little girl of five sum- 
mers; Mr. Shakleroad, a wealthy mining 
man, and his daughter, a rather plain-look- 
ing young woman of twenty years or more ; 
and Mr. Randal, a ycung attorney, whose 
appearance might be considered pleasing 
save for a certain weakness about his mouth 
which was almost concealed by a silky, well- 
trained moustache, constituted the family 
group at the table in the cosy dining-room 
of one of the select boarding houses on 
“ Nob Hill,” of which Mr. and Mrs. Henry 
Moulton were the host and hostess. 

They had been discussing the advent of 
the new boarder who, it was agreed, was 
quaintly pretty, and who, upon entering the 
room, was introduced and assigned a seat 
by the side of the young attorney. 

Mrs. Dayton at once became the object 
of much attention. Nearly all wondered at 
her travelling alone — so attractive and ap- 


134 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


parently so young. As she sat at the end 
of the broad table, dressed in a quiet mouse- 
colored dress, the elbow sleeves displaying 
a pretty, well-rounded and dimpled arm, 
and, with nothing to justify her claim to 
matronhood but the plain band of gold 
upon the third finger of her left hand, she 
looked more like a young lady of eighteen 
than a married woman of twenty-four. 

She had given satisfactory references, and 
to all their covert attempts to draw her out 
she remained unresponsive. She was simply 
Mrs. Dayton, the wife of Mr. Dayton, of 
New York, and it never occurred to her to 
give any further explanation. She made no 
mention of the rich Daytons, of whom every- 
body had heard on account of their wealth 
and power. She had left her husband, never 
to return to him, and she no longer con- 
sidered them her relatives. Had any one 
asked her if she were related to them, she 
would have given them an evasive answer, 
as she wished to sever all her former con- 
nections and commence life anew. 

Her sister-in-law had striven to exact a 
promise from her to write and keep her in- 
formed of her whereabouts; but Vera had 
wearied as much of Ethelind’s treachery as 
she had of all her other annoyances. She 


NEW ASSOCIATIONS. 


135 


felt that in some way Mrs. Dayton was re- 
sponsible for the estrangement of Amy and 
Vergne. She recalled an impression that 
her sister-in-law had made upon her some 
time prior to Florence’s wedding, that Amy 
had somehow taken an irretrievable step; 
but she had never heard it from any other 
source, and, study as deeply as she would, 
she could not remember one word that had 
been said to produce that impression so 
strongly upon her mind. 

Amy’s illness had proven to Vera that 
Ethelind had created that feeling for the sole 
purpose of gaining Vergne as a husband for 
Florence ; and she had come to loathe her 
as she would a crawling reptile. 

Although Mrs. Dayton was the recipient 
of much attention in her new boarding 
house, she remained diffident, and, through 
her usual reticence of manner, whatever cu- 
riosity had been excited by her appearance 
was left ungratified, except that her refer- 
ence to her former residence was partially 
confirmed through the distribution of the 
mail, which brought many letters from New 
York. 

From the moment of her introduction, it 
was noticeable to the family that the young 
attorney was unusually entertaining in Vera’s 


136 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

presence ; while Mrs. Dayton could but be 
amused at the manner in which he mutilated 
the English language and the self-complais- 
ant ignorance with which he returned her 
smiles of amusement, in a kindly look of 
gratification at what he thought was her 
appreciation of his efforts. 

Notwithstanding the fact that his wife had 
recently procured a divorce upon grounds 
that reflected much discredit upon him, he 
seemed to be a perso7ta grata with the oc- 
cupants of the house, who had words only 
of condemnation for the wife, while treating 
Mr. Randal with much consideration. Es- 
pecially gracious was the pretty Mrs. Mur- 
ray, who impressed Mrs. Dayton as pecu- 
liarly favored in the ideal family of which 
she formed a part. Vera did not note the 
flashing of the eyes of the pretty lady-like 
wife, as Mr. Randal exerted himself to the 
utmost to entertain her; and, when she retired 
from the dining-room, she confided to her 
diary the impression she had received, mak- 
ing favorable mejition in particular of the 
sweet little woman. 

One evening soon after Christmas it had 
been arranged by Mr. and Mrs. Moulton, 
Miss Shakleroad, and Vera, to visit some 
place of amusement. Mr. Randal had not 


NEW ASSOCIATIONS, 


13; 

yet appeared when Mrs. Dayton had finished 
dinner, and upon her return, dressed for 
the theatre, she was surprised to see him 
added to the party. Arriving later, and 
learning of their intention, he had asked 
permission to accompany them, at the same 
time requesting Mr. and Mrs. Moulton to 
take charge of Miss Shakleroad. As they 
were descending the steps, the host, much 
to the young lady’s disappointment, politely 
offered her his arm, which, however, she 
could not refuse as there was no alternative, 
thus leaving Mrs. Dayton obliged to accept 
Mr. Randal as her escort. A very pleasant 
evening was passed, followed by a midnight 
supper at a famous German resort where 
many of San Francisco’s most fashionable 
people repaired after the theatre, and a 
glimpse of life was presented to Vera which 
was new and strange. Many types of all 
nations were here represented, seemingly 
extracting much satisfaction from the pleas- 
ures of the hour. 

A little half-clad, barefoot boy stood shiv- 
ering in the cold at the entrance to the 
place, his pitiful face appealing to the 
crowd' of pleasure-seekers to buy the pencils 
which he held in his hand. 

It was the same little fellow whom Mrs. 


138 the woman and the world. 

Dayton had previously met in the street, 
standing in the rain, his bare feet upon the 
cold stone pavements. She had taken him 
into a store and purchased for him good 
warm clothing and shoes, had given him 
money, and sent him home. Yet there he 
was again, with the same ragged clothes and 
pitiful begging expression, the sight of 
which almost spoiled the pleasure of her 
evening, as she wondered how the officers 
for the prevention of cruelty to children 
could have overlooked the little waif, in 
such a public place, so plainly a subject for 
the exercise of their authority. The over- 
sight seemed particularly difficult of explan- 
ation, since the officials had recently created 
a sensation, resulting to their own advan- 
tage, by causing the arrest, for cruelty, of 
the mothers of several bright children who 
had been permitted to appear upon the 
stage to earn for themselves all the luxuries 
of life, while enjoying the appreciation of 
the public. The work had been but slightly 
detrimental to the health of the children, 
who, as soon as they ceased to be infantile 
prodigies, would probably have been placed 
in good schools to be educated. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


HER LEGAL ADVISER. 

Free from Hubert’s domination, Vera had 
begun to enjoy life, hoping against hope to 
be able to bring about a termination of her 
affairs with him ; but how to accomplish this 
was a question which troubled her. He 
had fought and conquered death, snatching 
her from its very jaws in his frantic endeavor 
to keep her with him, and she knew that he 
would not give her up without a struggle. 
She had received many appealing letters 
from him and, anticipating his arrival at 
any time, determined to advise with Mr. 
Randal in his legal capacity. 

Mrs. Dayton had become accustomed to 
the latter’s numerous blunders, and rather 
enjoyed his happy unconsciousness of them. 
Concerning the city and its surroundings, 
she had found him an encyclopaedia of 
knowledge, and it had been a matter of 
great convenience to call upon him for 
directions in that respect, which he graciously 
accorded, insisting upon her accepting his 


140 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD, 


services in performing many little acts of 
kindness for her. 

When she consulted him in regard to her 
domestic difficulty he at once relieved her 
of all trouble in the matter by taking it en- 
tirely upon his own shoulders ; and his mild- 
ness of manner, so directly in contrast to 
Hubert’s strong, perturbed passions, gave 
her a feeling of rest and reliance. But 
Hubert could no longer endure their sep- 
aration, and had finally come to California 
determined to enforce her return. 

As Mrs. Dayton’s legal adviser, Mr. Ran- 
dal, with his accustomed suavity, and the 
peculiar power he possessed of disarming 
people of all suspicion of his intent, argued 
with Mr. Dayton, who, in spite of his con- 
tempt for the opinion of such a nonentity 
as he had concluded Mr. Randal to be, was 
outdone by the man’s ingenuity ; for with 
all his brain-power and force of character, 
Hubert was no match for Mr. Randal’s sly 
cunning, which, with his pleasing appear- 
ance and inoffensive manner, usually won 
people into believing him thoroughly good 
and harmless. 

For a time his kindness and apparent dis- 
interestedness succeeded in completely de- 
ceiving Mr. Dayton, accustomed though he 


HER LEGAL ADVISER. I4I 

was to the world and to men ; but at last 
Hubert’s jealousy became aroused, and he 
felt sure that it was the attorney’s intention 
to ultimately win Vera for his wife. The 
suspicion excited his rage, which became so 
furious at last that Mrs. Dayton, in order to 
avoid the tragedy which she feared would 
be the inevitable result of her refusal to 
return with him to the East, acceded to his 
command. He had said: “You will be 
ready to start with me to-morrow morning, 
or I shall kill that man.” And she knew 
that he would do it. 

The following day saw them upon the 
east-bound train, prior to which Mr. Randal, 
seemingly indifferent to danger, had called 
upon Vera many times during the absence 
of her husband, whom he had shadowed by 
a detective since his advent in California, in 
order to insure his own safety. His frequent 
and amusingly-opportune visits at such times 
completely puzzled Mrs. Dayton, whose con- 
stant fear of the risk he was incurring was 
met with such brave assurance that she 
could not but admire him for his daring. 
Had she known his mode of protecting him- 
self, she might have had a different opinion. 

Vera had acquiesced in Hubert’s com- 
mand, because she knew that it was danger- 


142 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


ous to disobey, and, even were it not, she 
was satisfied that the only way to avert an 
open scandal, from which her nature shrank, 
was to be among his people, who had so 
much influence over him. When they 
arrived at the Dayton mansion in Chicago, 
at the end of a most disagreeable journey, 
she plainly told them all, and especially her 
husband’s brother, how she felt in the mat- 
ter. “As well plead for the dead to arise 
and walk as try to revive the love that is 
gone,” said Vera, in her sorrow and disgust 
at her husband’s abject misery, in strange 
contrast with his usual fierce command. And 
Edmund heard and understood, knowing 
her nature too well to controvert her. So 
together they advised a separation, to which 
Hubert, through his brother’s influence, 
finally agreed, being assured of the fruitless- 
ness of any further attempt to coerce his 
now finally estranged wife. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE REVELATION. 

Mr. and Mrs. de la Vergne had been 
residing in London nearly two years. 
The name of de la Vergne had proved an 
open sesame in business for the Daytons, 
while Vergne’s handsome face and modest 
yet manly bearing had won for him a host 
of admirers and friends. The confidence 
which he had inspired had been a powerful 
aid in successfully disposing of the much- 
watered stock of the Great American Rail- 
road Company, and millions had been won 
through that influence. As Vergne’s com- 
pensation was an equal portion in the net 
division, he soon found himself ranking 
among the multi-millionaires of the day. 
But money was as dross to him ; it would 
buy everything his heart desired, except the 
love he craved — the love which was lost to 
him forever through his marriage with 
Florence. 

The excitement of studying and promoting 
the interest of the corporation which he 
represented had, in a measure, kept his mind 
from dwelling upon the object of his love, 


144 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


but his leisure moments often found him 
restless and unhappy. Vergne realized that 
he had been a mere tool in the hands of his 
father-in-law, Edmund Dayton, and he was 
not always satisfied with the methods em- 
ployed by that financial juggler, who man- 
aged, however, to keep many of his under- 
hand proceedings from the young man’s 
knowledge. Vergne began to take less 
interest in railway matters, leaving it all to 
the well-trained and methodical subordinates 
whom Edmund had taken pains to place in 
his department. These, however, were im- 
pressed with the belief that Mr. de la 
Vergne was deeply engrossed in the secret 
affairs of the corporation with which he was 
identified, as he had frequently given them 
orders not to permit him to be disturbed in 
his sanctum. They did not know that in 
the inner recess of his private safe there 
was deposited a small box whose contents 
held the secret of a love he prized far more 
than the millions he had accumulated, and 
for which he would willingly have resigned 
them all. 

When alone in his office, he would take 
from its receptacle a little glove, whose faint 
perfume, stealing upon his senses, would 
make him almost feel the actual presence of 


THE REVELATION. 


145 


the one who had worn it. Again and again, 
under the spell of the sweet illusion, he 
would press it to his lips in rapturous ex- 
pression of a love all the deeper from its 
habitual restraint. Upon one occasion, as 
he was reluctantly replacing the hoarded 
treasure, he was on the point of taking from 
the little box a photograph, when Florence, 
in spite of the precaution he had exercised 
against interruption, entered unannounced. 
Turning savagely upon the intruder, as he 
heard the door open, his manner instantly 
changed at sight of his wife. He received 
her with a flushed face and an embarrass- 
ment which at once excited her curiosity, 
further aroused by seeing him hastily replace 
something in the box and lock it in a com- 
partment of his safe, forgetting, however, 
in his confusion, to remove the bunch of 
keys from the lock. 

During the first year of their married life, 
Florence had given birth to a beautiful baby 
boy, and was soon to become a mother 
again. As time passed and she felt more 
secure in her position with her husband, she 
occasionally allowed her natural disposition 
to assert itself in the irritation often incident 
to child-bearing. She possessed a sharp 
tongue, and as she shared the too-common 


146 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


feeling which mistakes unpleasant personal- 
ities for wit, her conversation with Vergne 
had so often been pointed in that belief that 
he had become weary of its frequency. She 
had inherited much of her mother’s tact and 
talent, lacking only her experience ; but 
there had been no necessity for the exercise 
of either, as Vergne was always kind and 
attentive, and, like most good husbands, 
easily managed. Yet she craved the love 
which she knew she had no right to expect, 
and, although she had been able to control 
his actions to some extent, she had learned 
what it was to possess an empty casket, and 
by that thought was often goaded into ill- 
temper, which only her conventional train- 
ing could in any degree restrain. 

Becoming restless on the day of the visit 
above described, she concluded to call upon 
her husband and have luncheon with him 
down town. Her sudden appearance in his 
office was such an unexpected event that, 
under the circumstances, it required a great 
effort on Vergne’s part to recover himself 
and receive her with his usual courtesy; but 
he was soon relieved from his perplexity by 
a summons to the ante-room for consultation 
in an important matter, and, excusing him- 
self to his wife, disappeared from the room. 


'THE REVELATIO^^. 


14; 

Seeing the opportunity to gratify her 
curiosity and to learn the cause of her hus- 
band’s confusion, Florence lost no time in 
turning the key in the compartment, and, 
taking the little box from its place of conceal- 
ment, opened the lid. Her eyes rested upon 
the ineffably sweet and beautiful face of 
Amy Robertson, and beneath the picture 
the words plainly written in Vergne’s strong 
hand upon the card, “ My lost darling, my 
soul goes with you.” 

In the shock of the discovery, the box 
and contents dropped to the floor, while her 
hands covered her face to shut out the 
hated sight of those lovely eyes that smiled 
back upon her. Yet, close her eyes as she 
might, the face and the words beneath it 
'were ever present as vividly as if Amy her- 
self were before her in the flesh. 

Recovering herself in a moment, she 
hastily gathered up the articles and replaced 
them, not forgetting to turn the key, and 
had seated herself in the sarnie position in 
which Vergne had left her, apparently 
interested in the columns of the morning 
paper as he entered. She received him 
with a smile and in so gracious a manner 
that Vergne upbraided himself for not feel- 
ing more devotion toward her in her con- 


48 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


dition, and, during their luncheon at the 
cafe, exerted himself to make her call as 
agreeable as possible. 

Not many months after the incident of 
Florence’s visit at his office, a pretty baby 
girl was lying in the cradle near her bed. 
It possessed not a single feature of the Day- 
ton or the de la Vergne families. The 
wide eyes, of a decidedly dark gray, were as 
utterly different from the mother’s deep 
steelly blue, with their round lids, as from 
Vergne’s dark brown orbs. Nor was there 
among the ancestors on either side one that 
had the golden hair or any of the features 
which bore so strong a likeness to Amy, as 
to admit of no doubt upon that point. 

What freak had nature played? Vergne 
puzzled his mind and wondered if his 
thoughts, so constant to his love, were 
responsible for what had happened. Flor- 
ence, recognizing the 'likeness which each 
day became more decided, remembered the 
incident of her visit to Vergne’s office ; the 
shock she had received in the moment of 
her discovery of Vergne’s constancy to his 
old love ; how she had covered her face with 
her hands to shut out the hated sight, and 
she knew it was that act that had resulted 
in placing before her, in her own flesh and, 


THE REVELATION. 


H9 

blood, a constant reminder of, and reproach 
for, her guilty part in robbing her friend of 
the man she loved. 

The infant boy, scarcely fifteen months 
old, looked very much like Vergne. He had 
been a great attraction to his father in his 
home-coming, and Florence had cause for 
self-congratulation in the power she had 
gained over Vergne through the advent of 
the little stranger. 

His continuous crying, as if in pain, de- 
manded much attention from them both, 
and the sympathy for his weakness had 
helped to entwine the little fellow in their 
affections. His head, a trifle large, seemed 
to be ever restless, rolling about upon his 
pillow while he slept. His occasional 
screams would always bring Vergne, ever 
alert to the slightest sound from the nurs- 
ery, to his bedside. The doctor had pre- 
scribed careful attention to diet, with nour- 
ishing food and special treatment, and every 
consideration was given to the infant, both 
by nurse and parents. Florence had named 
it Vergne, and, when the little girl began 
to show so marked a resemblance to Amy, 
Vergne claimed the privilege of calling it 
after her. Florence yielded, as she had 
frequently spoken of Amy in Vergne s pres- 


150 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

ence, feigning great friendship for her and 
regretting that she had concluded to enter 
a convent after having made so many con- 
quests. She knew that her mother had 
created an impression on Vergne’s mind 
which had led him to connect disagreeably 
the two events of Amy’s life — her illness 
and her retirement from the world. She 
felt that it would be wise to leave that 
impression to rankle in his bosom without 
committing herself in any way, and she 
concluded to allow the little girl to be called 
Amy, knowing that he would be grateful to 
her for the privilege, in his ignorance of her 
knowledge of his love. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE STEPPING-STONE. 

Acting upon the advice of Mr. Randal, 
the young Mrs. Dayton had left many of her 
personal effects in California, in order to 
claim a residence there in the event of her 
desiring to obtain a divorce. The time 
required for that purpose having elapsed, 
Mr. Randal not only wrote advising her 
strongly to return and secure her freedom, 
but had the assurance to commence pro- 
ceedings without her knowledge, in the form 
of publication to defendant. When Hubert 
received the summons, he had responded at 
once, in order to hasten results, as, in his 
bereavement and desire for companionship, 
he had become enamored of a handsome 
woman in his set, and through jealousy of a 
rival, to whom she was engaged, his passion 
had been precipitated to such an extent that 
he was willing that Vera should be free, 
though he made one more appeal to her to 
come back to him, saying that he could 
not endure life without her. 

It was now necessary for Mrs. Dayton to 
return to California to give her testimony, 


152 


THE WOMAN AN® THE WORLD. 


which was supplemented by that of an 
acquaintance who had once been in the 
same house with her, and whose evidence, 
under Mr. Randal’s directions, was surpris- 
ingly strong; but it secured Mrs. Dayton 
her freedom, and she did not think to ques- 
tion it. 

On Mrs. Dayton’s arrival in California, 
Mr. Randal, who became quite persistent 
in his attentions, never lost an opportunity 
to wait upon her, anticipating her every 
wish even before it could be uttered, and 
scarcely allowing a day to pass without 
remaining many hours by her side. At 
times this was rather tiresome to her, 
although she felt grateful to him for his 
kindness and the assistance he had rendered 
in securing her release from her husband. 

She found herself frequently contrasting 
his inferior mental force with that of Hubert’s, 
but, she argued, Hubert had failed to make 
her happy. In fact, notwithstanding his 
strong mentality, her life had been wretched 
with him, and when Mr. Randal urged his 
suit for her hand in his mild manner, the 
contrast with Hubert’s excess of passion was 
in favor of the young attorney, while asso- 
ciation with him in her isolation had caused 
her to lose sight of his glaring deficiencies, 


THE STEPPING-STONE. 


153 


which had at first been so noticeable. Edu- 
cation, she thought, moreover, was some- 
thing that could be acquired by a few years 
of study and observation, and she felt that 
she would be able to assist him in overcom- 
ing his defects, and find pleasure in building 
him up to her standard. Did life, as she 
looked into the future, seem to her barren 
without something to cling to and love? 
The die was at last cast, and Mrs. Dayton 
Surrendered to the suit of her attorney. 

A quiet ceremony was performed, and a 
residence established in San Francisco. Mr. 
Randal’s practice, which had hitherto af- 
forded him only a precarious living, began, 
with his new wife’s assistance, to assume 
more definite proportions and, in furthering 
his ambitions, life, which might have been 
very dull, became interesting to her. 

Not long after their marriage, Mrs. 
Randal had been much shocked at her hus- 
band’s mode of conducting his cases. A 
client had been sued for a debt of several 
hundred dollars, to which he had set up a 
counter claim, which, however, was alto- 
gether too weak to admit of consideration. 
Expecting, as a matter of course, that her 
husband’s client would be justly defeated, 
she was surprised to hear Mr. Randal ex- 


154 


THE Woman and the world. 


claim triumphantly: “Well, I won that 
case. 

“ How did you do it?” asked his wife in 
amazement. 

“ I had my client swear that he did not 
owe the money, and there was no proof that 
he did, other than the plaintiff’s word.” 

The expression of Vera’s countenance at 
the dishonesty of the transaction was ap- 
parent as she exclaimed: “ What ! swear to 
a falsehood ? ” But it merely elicited this 
reply, in the most matter-of-fact way, “Oh, 
that’s nothing'; itisdone in court everyday.” 

The instability of his character was more 
in evidence each day, but Vera had ceased 
to look for perfection ; and, while she took 
no part in the deceptions he practised, she 
entered heart and soul into nearly all his 
cases, studying up the details for him, and 
writing his arguments whenever it was nec- 
essary for him to speak in court. And he, 
wholly lacking in sensitiveness, was ever 
ready with a plausible reply to any com- 
ment whenever the inconsistencies of the 
work of the two characters were apparent. 

He had taken up a case that was attract- 
ing much attention, for in its success lay a 
great fortune for both himself and his client, 
who was a helpless, abandoned child of sin. 


THE STEPPING-STONE. 


55 


The mother had died, leaving him upon the 
cold charity of the world, and thedather, to 
whom on several occasions an appeal had 
been made, admitted the child’s paternity, 
which fact, although a weak one, was held 
sufficient to found the legal claim to the 
valuable property which he had left at his 
death. 

There were many claimants in opposition, 
and many learned attorneys to contend with; 
but Vera felt that, weak as it was, it was 
a case of right against might, and her sense 
of justice, added to the faith she had, made 
her believe that througli their joint efforts 
and the “quality of mercy,” which in this 
instance “should not be strained,” they 
would be able to win the case for the child 
and place him in the position to which the 
ties of kinship, legitimate or illegitimate, 
entitled him. 

Months were spent in preparation, and 
from their numerous conversations upon 
the subject, Mr. Randal had absorbed much 
of his wife’s magnetism and originality of 
thought, being able to repeat like a parrot 
her very language and intonations, appro- 
priating her ideas as his own, and in the 
most nonchalant manner would accept credit 
for much sagacity. Vera, on her part, was 


156 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

quite^well-pleased at the result of her labor, 
overlooking his omission to recognize the 
source from which he derived his power. 

Testimony and counter-testimony was in- 
troduced, and, as the case proceeded, per- 
jury was rampant in the court-room. The 
time at length came for argument, when 
Mr. Randal was to lay the case before the 
jury in all its details. Vera had written out 
his speech and he had rehearsed it before 
her many times, trying to imbue himself 
with the vital force of her inspiration — a task 
that was an arduous one. 

There was no feature omitted, no point 
left open, and the argument, in its eloquent 
appeal for justice for the helpless child who 
stood alone, with no law to protect him ; 
thrust upon the world, not by his own vo- 
lition; branded with the curse of illegitimacy; 
the only sufferer for the sins of the parents 
— was made so strong in the delivery of 
Vera’s well-chosen words that the indispu- 
table logic of the opposing forces could not 
break it down. 

It was a celebrated case, one in which the 
side of right was apparently so weak that it 
was a great victory for Mr. Randal and 
brought him a reputation which served him 
for many years after. So much was this the 


THE STEPPING-STONE. 


157 


case, that the lawyer’s name was inscribed in 
the professional consulting book of one of 
the great monopolies of the day and placed 
opposite to that of the “ retained.” The 
adulation which he received on all sides, he 
appropriated entirely to himself, completely 
ignoring the fact that his success was almost 
wholly due to the earnestness of the wife 
who had spent days in studying and prepar- 
ing the case for him ; or, if he once remem- 
bered it, he disliked the idea of admitting it 
even to himself. His small nature craved 
the flattery and attention of those who could 
look up to him, and he sought companion, 
ship elsewhere, in his base ingratitude, ex- 
periencing pleasure in the thought that he 
could make his wife, through her extremely 
sensitive organization, suffer sufficiently in 
his absence and neglect to be glad to see 
him when he returned, and the pleasure 
was apparently enhanced by the idea that 
throuofh such means she would feel his 
superiority as a man. 

Too late Vera realized her mistake, but 
she resolved to endure bravely. She had 
expected but little from her husband ; never- 
theless, she began to droop under the influ- 
ence of the barrenness of her life, which she 
had at first failed to observe in her absorp- 


158 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


tion in her husband’s work and her attention 
to the re-investment of her own private funds 
in California. But it gradually began to 
dawn upon her that the weight he had so 
pleasantly lifted from her shoulders, in his 
efforts to secure her freedom from Hubert, 
had fallen back upon her with redoubled 
force when she had taken upon herself the 
burden of his professional preferment. 

Hers was a nature to love and to be loved. 
With Mr. Randal, possession meant loss of 
value; and his puny, passionless love had 
deserted him in that possession. Remem- 
bering how, in her life with Hubert, her love 
which, at first, had been all-absorbing, had 
gradually withered and died, and how he had 
vainly tried to restore it, Vera felt that if 
Mr. Randal had ceased to care for her, it 
was useless to attempt to revive his love, 
and worthless, even were it revived. She 
had learned from the wives of many San 
Francisco men, who had brought their 
troubles into her husband’s office and to 
her sympathetic nature for counsel, of much 
of the unhappiness existing among them 
through neglect. Love, hatred, and indiffer- 
ence alternating as their consciousness was 
moved, quickened, or lulled to sleep. Hence 
she was led to exclaim, when worn out 


THE STEPPING-STONE. 


159 


with their stories and her own troubles: “ I 
do not want to meet another married woman; 
they all seem so unhappy! ” Yet, while she 
realized the similarity of their loveless lives 
to her own — such was the irony of fate — 
they congratulated her upon her happiness 
in possessing such a popular husband! 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE POWER OF LOVE. 

Vergne had been so thoroughly engrossed 
in business during the first years of their 
marriage, and little Vergne and Amy had 
claimed so much of his attention later on, 
that he had been quite content to remain 
abroad as second vice-president of the 
Great American Railroad corporation. 
Recently, however, much time had been 
devoted to shopping and making purchases 
for the new home, which had long been in 
course of construction in Chicago, as it had 
been decided that Vergne’s presence was no 
longer necessary in London. 

Any mention of little Amy’s strong re- 
semblance to the former schoolmate and 
friend of Florence had been avoided by 
both himself and his wife, each feeling jointly 
accountable. Vergne’s fondness for the little 
girl, in the meantime had become simple 
idolatry, while Florence’s aversion for the 
child was softened only by its winning 
manner. 

From her knowledge of Vergne’s atten- 
tion to the little one, Mrs. de la Vergne’s 


THE POWER OF LOVE. l6l 

jealousy would cause her to become almost 
cruel, and often she would push the child 
from her and bid the nurse take her away. 
The Boy, Vergne, who by this time had dis- 
closed a weakness of intellect as well as of 
body — which had become partly paralyzed 
through frequent epileptic attacks — often 
witnessed the treatment that his tiny sister 
received from their mother, and, in his child- 
ish prattle, he on one occasion revealed the 
fact to his father. Little Amy possessed 
many of the Dayton family characteristics, 
which, with her great beauty, and her im- 
perious, yet affectionate, nature, even in her 
infancy, gave promise of future power. 

To his little boy, and to his wife, Vergne 
was usually affectionate and kind, but his 
baby girl ruled him, as she ruled everyone — 
yet so gently did she do so, that she was 
loved and obeyed at the same time. In- 
stinctively she knew the moments when her 
mother could not endure her presence, and, 
with a foresight unusual, frequently avoided 
obtruding. 

The de la Vergnes had finally returned 
to Chicago to occupy their magnificent 
mansion, which had just been completed 
after a design sent from abroad. Several 
years had elapsed since Vergne had held 


i62 the woman and the world. 

much conversation with any of his old ac- 
quaintances. Standing one day upon the 
corner of a down-town street, waiting for a 
car, he was accosted by Alfred Richmond, 
an old college-mate and familiar friend, 
who congratulated him upon his good fortune 
in becoming so wealthy and apparently so 
happy in his domestic relations, but at the 
same time playfully chided him for break- 
ing with Amy Robertson, as it had become 
known that she had retired to a convent 
and taken the veil — all for love of Vergne, 
it had been said. 

‘‘•You are mistaken,” said Vergne, con- 
cealing his agitation. 

“ Mistaken ! ” exclaimed his friend seri- 
ously. “ Oh, no ! It was told upon the 
best authority that, in her ravings during 
her illness for six weeks after your marriage, 
her only words were of you and the wed- 
ding. The doctor thought at one time 
that she would be hopelessly insane when 
she recovered.” 

“ My God ! ” exclaimed Vergne, overcome, 
and clinging for support to the letter-box, 
against which he was leaning. 

H is friend, surprised at the pallor of his 
face, replied: “You don’t mean to tell me 
you didn’t know that she was in love with 


THE POWER OF LOVE. 


163 


you when you married Miss Dayton, and 
that every one thought until then that you 
returned her affection ? 

“ Did you think me so mean” — 

“Oh, well, you know how people talk 
about those things — and the temptation of 
money is pretty strong.” 

“ But she was engaged.” 

“ I never heard of it.” 

“ What ? It was reported.” 

“ So it was reported that you and Florence 
were engaged a long time before it was 
announced.” 

“ But it was not true.” Then, Vergne, 
remembering that he was disclosing family 
matters which the world had no right to 
know, said no more. 

“ I’m sorry, old boy, if I have given you 
a shaking up, but it was always a mystery 
to me how you could throw over that 
superb creature for money. I’ve always 
felt that there was something behind it all; 
but public opinion, you know, is apt to carry 
us along with it, reason or no reason.” 

“Say no more about it, Alfred, only give 
me credit for one thing — I did not marry 
for money.” 

“ Glad to hear you say it. I always main- 
tained you thought a great deal of Florence, 


164 the woman and the world. 

but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Amy, 
who, you know, could have taken the pick 
of us all.” 

The friend looked at his watch and bade 
him a hurried good-bye, adding, as he disap- 
peared around the corner, “don’t let what 
I have said disturb you.” 

So stunned was Vergne at the news he 
had just heard that he remained for some 
moments but half-conscious on the sidewalk 
until the piercing winds recalled him to 
himself. The words rang in his ears: 
“ Don’t let what I have said disturb you 
“thought she would be hopelessly insane” 
— “while I was speeding away o’er land and 
sea. Let me think — how did it all come 
about ? No — no — no one was to blame but 
myself” — he said with a deep sigh — “ no one 
was to blame but myself. I was too hasty 
in my proposal of marriage to Florence. 
She was not engaged. Who told me she 
was ? Let me think — it was that meddle- 
some Mrs. Gregory, and I heard it at the 
club. No; I, only, was to blame! I 
thought love in a cottage was not to be 
considered for a moment, yet a convent life 
is far simpler and more self-denying, and 
love in a palace does not always endure.” 

Vergne was standing in front of a men’s 


THE POWER OF LOVE. 


165 


furnishing store. He stepped within the 
doorway to think and 'shut out the cold which 
was now fast numbing his senses. Mecham 
ically he walked forward toward the counter, 
as a clerk advanced to meet him, and, with 
an effort, he pulled himself together. 

“ I want to purchase a travelling outfit," 
he said, in answer to the shopman’s polite 
inquiry. 

The handsomest and most expensive in 
the house was shown him, which he accepted 
without a question, and readily assented to 
the clerk’s suggestion that the valise be 
packed with the toilet and other articles 
which he had purchased, sufficient fora long 
journey. Vergne thanked him for his kind- 
ness, and stood within the doorway respond- 
ing to his remarks in monosyllables, which 
soon had the effect of sending his somewhat 
loquacious attendant to wait upon a new 
customer. 

“ What shall I do ? ’’ said he, as he felt the 
weight of the satchel in his hand. Looking 
at his watch, he noted that it lacked three 
hours of the time for the departure of the 
fast express for San Francisco, and only fif- 
teen minutes remained before the closing of 
the bank. Thither he at once repaired, 
drawing a large sum of money and securing 


i66 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


drafts on San Francisco for still larger 
amounts for future emergencies. T wo hours 
remained for business and dinner before it 
was necessary to take a carriage for the train, 
‘ But where shall I say I have gone?” he 
cogitated. “ If it is learned that my des- 
tination is San Francisco, Alfred will at once 
connect that circumstance with our meeting. 
No ; that won’t do. I had better have it 
announced that I have gone to New Orleans 
— that will throw them all off the track. 
Let me see — I’ll write to Fred Williams at 
New Orleans to wire a message for me, in 
case I do not see him.” And Vergne took 
a Western Union blank, and addressed it to 
the general manager in Chicago, heading it 
“New Orleans,” leaving the date blank: 
“ Have come here unexpectedly to look up 
some confidential matters. Back in ten days.” 

‘ Fred will not betray me,” he mused, as 
he enclosed the message, with a note of in- 
structions to his friend in New Orleans, and 
mailed it with a special-delivery stamp, at 
the same time wiring him to look for letter 
of advice, and to answer his messa<je, direct- 
ing to him en route. This he did to avoid mis- 
understanding, as he intended taking a short 
cut, by the Southern line, to escape the 
delay of snow-blockades in the mountains, 


THE POWER OF LOVE. 167 

which the papers that morning had men- 
tioned. 

Penning a few lines to Florence, he stated 
that an urgent matter required his immediate 
attention in the South, and that he would 
not be at home for ten days or more. The 
note was signed: “In great haste ’’ with 
scarcely a word of affection contained in it. 
Not a moment’s thought was given to the 
family, except that little Amy’s face rose 
before him to spur him on. “ Poor child ! ” 
he thought sadly ; “ she will miss her papa, 
but she will be taken good care of, I am 


sure. 


CHAPTER XX. 


WITHIN THE CLOISTER. 

A TALL, handsome gentleman, whose 
appearance was rather distingu6, was looking 
eagerly toward the shore as the ferry-boat 
entered the slip at San Francisco. Placing 
his valise in charge of the Palace Hotel 
attendant, he was driven to that caravansary 
and registered — not by his own name, how- 
ever, for he knew that the telegraphic com- 
munications would announce his arrival 
both east and west. 

After giving some attention to his per- 
sonal appearance, he ordered a carriage and 
was conveyed to the convent which held 
within its walls the object of his one thought. 
As the door opened for him to enter, he 
inquired with a beating heart, but with 
a firm voice, for Sister Agnes Gerard. 

“What name shall I give?” meekly in- 
quired the sister who admitted him. 

“ I would prefer not to give it, if you 
please,” he replied so gracefully that the 
sister quite overlooked the omission, and 
conducted him to the extreme end of the 


WITHIN THE CLOISTER. 


169 

large reception-room, which was just being 
vacated by several belated visitors. 

Seated in the shadowy corner, Vergne 
had time to note every detail of the sombre 
attire of Sister Agnes, as she approached 
without recognizing him, and her face, so 
surpassingly lovely in its saintly expression, 
seemed in his imagination to be surrounded 
by a halo of purity. He rose to meet her, 
stretching out his arms as he did so. 

“Amy!” he cried, his voice trembling 
with emotion. 

“Vergne!” she exclaimed, as she lifted 
her eyes and recognized the stranger. 

The blood instantly forsook her face, and 
Vergne was none too soon as he sprang to 
catch her swaying form in its loss of con- 
sciousness. The veil, which had become 
entangled in his arm, loosened the fasten- 
ings of her bonnet which dropped from her 
head, disclosing the magnificent crown of 
golden hair that escaped from its confine- 
ment in short ringlets, and, as she lay in his 
arms, he pressed his fevered lips to hers in 
burning, unrestrained kisses. In her all but 
unconsciousness of them, -Amy felt, for that 
moment of bliss, that she could exchange all 
the years of the pure, holy life she had led, 
and even all the life to come. Instantly the 


170 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


shame and humiliation of her weakness fol- 
lowed, and repentance began as she realized 
the enormity of the sin she was committing. 

“ Oh, Vergne, why have you come to 
tempt me so,” she wailed in an agony of 
despair, and struggling in 'her weakness to 
release herself. 

“ Darling,” he said, as he clasped her in 
his arms once more and pressed her passion- 
ately to his breast, “ God has willed that 
our souls shah not be parted; though land 
and sea have separated us for years, never 
for one moment of my life have you been’ 
absent from my thoughts, and, at times, your 
very presence has seemed to be with me. 
Oh Amy, my love, my soul, come with me! 
Leave this home of sacrifice and let us 
live and love — love, and be together. My 
angel, my darling, mine forever! ” he said 
passionately, as he held her in a maddening 
embrace. 

“Vergne!” exclaimed Amy, sternly, tear- 
ing herself from his grasp, her face in its 
expression of unspeakable anguish contra- 
dicting her manner, “You must not, you 
shall not talk to me so. Remember your 
family.” And, as she said the last words, it 
seemed as if the chill of death was upon her, 
for she saw once more the icy smile of Mrs. 


WITHIN THE CLOISTER. 


I7I 

Dayton, which had so ruthlessly pierced her 
heart. 

“My family” — replied Vergne, hopeless- 
ly. “ Oh, love — could you but see our little 
Amy, you would then realize in the living 
image she is of you what my family should 
be.” 

“ Florence’s child and yours, Vergne, like 
me ?” 

“ Like you, Amy, lacking only that beauty 
of expression which heaven alone can be- 
stow. How it came about I know not. I 
only know that you were constantly in my 
thoughts ; waking or sleeping, you were 
ever present.” 

“ And you could leave that child and go 
with me to live a life of sin ? ” she said, sor- 
rowfully. “Oh, Vergne, thin-k how un- 
happy you would become as your thoughts 
would revert to the desertion of the little one 
who has come to comfort you in your trial.” 

“ Amy, darling, don’t reproach me. I 
had forgotten all — everything — even her, 
when I learned by accident that you loved 
me ; a love which I would have given the 
world to have possessed, only I had not the 
courage to ask for such a priceless boon. 
And now that wealth has come to me, it is 
nothing without you. Oh, Amy,” he said. 


72 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


pleadingly, “think of the happiness that 
might be in store for us, if you would but 
consent to go with me. I could take little 
Amy, as Florence, for some unaccountable 
reason, seems to be annoyed by her pres- 
ence, and we three together in some far- 
distant land ” 

“Vergne, you must not speak of it — not 
even think of it,” interrupted Amy with 
agitation as she noted his hopeful tone. 
“Your duty lies with your family ; mine is 
here. Do not remain longer, I beg of you, 
to harrow up feelings whose very thought 
it were sin for either of us to indulge. God 
forgive me,” she cried in anguish, “and 
you, too, Vergne;” and she clasped her 
hands appealingly. 

Sister Mary Lewis entered the reception- 
room, which had been left deserted unusu- 
ally long. 

“ Amy,” cried Vergne, “are you going to 
dismiss me now ? ” 

“ I must ! Listen,” she said, as the 
strains of the organ, which had been un- 
heeded by them, became more distinct as 
the sister opened the door ; “ it is time for 
the benediction in the chapel, and Sister 
Mary has come to remind me that I am 
late. Go at once, I beg of you.” 


WITHIN THE CLOISTER. 


173 


Love, come with me,” he said, low and 
hurriedly, with a passionate appeal in his 
tone ; “ I cannot, I shall not, live without 
you.” 

“Oh, Vergne, go at once,” Amy urged, 
beseechingly. 

“ I shall remain at the Palace, then, until 
you come.” 

“ ril write to you, Vergne,” replied Amy. 
“ Good-bye. May God bless and keep you ! ” 

And with an agonized expression, inten- 
sified by the marble-whiteness of her face, 
she left him to join Sister Mary. 


CHAPTER XXL 


THE SACRIFICE. 

An epidemic of smallpox was raging in 
San Francisco. An order had come to the 
convent for two sisters to help in nursing 
the patients at the pest-house, which was 
overcrowded with victims of the dread dis- 
ease, and who were suffering for want of 
proper attention. 

“ Let me go, Mother," at once responded 
Amy to the call for assistance. “ I should 
be so glad to be of service where it is most 
needed." And Amy sighed deeply, as she 
thought with bitter pain and sorrow how 
little she could do to atone for the sin that 
she had committed in yielding for one short 
moment, though only in thought, to carnal 
temptation. 

“ I’d be glad to give my poor services^ 
too," added Sister Mary Lewis as heartily. 

“You ? " said the Mother Superior ; “ how 
can I spare you two most of all ? More than 
that. Sister Agnes, you have only just been 
vaccinated, and you are very liable to contract 
the disease." 

“ I hardly think it. Mother," replied Amy ; 


THE SACRIFICE. 


175 


my arm is very sore. I am sure the virus 
is taking at once.” 

'‘Then it is the first of the points that we 
have received during the past few days that 
has taken effect. I had begun to doubt their 
efficacy, even though they were recom- 
mended by such a nice man as the druggist 
seems to be.” 

“But, Mother,” replied Amy, “what does 
it matter ? Some one must nurse those poor 
unfortunates, and I feel, besides, as if the 
change would be better for me.” 

The Mother Superior looked long at the 
saintly beauty of the countenance before her. 
“My child,” she said, “you are ever too 
ready to sacrifice yourself ; and you. Sister 
Mary, are equally unselfish. I’ll consider 
your offers and give you my decision pres- 
ently. If you go, it must be to-night.” 

“We are ready at any time,” both re- 
sponded, and Amy added : “ I should like 
first, with your permission. Mother, to write 
a letter which is necessary for me to mail 
this evening.” 

‘‘It is granted, my child. Go at once and 
prepare.” 

Amy — Sister Agnes, as she had eben 
named upon her entrance into the Order — 
had remained in the convent from the time 


176 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


of her return with Sister Aloyce from Long 
Branch, first as guest, then in the novitiate, 
and finally she had taken the veil of the 
sisterhood, dedicating her life to the sacred 
work. 

Her glorious beauty had become trans- 
cendant through the purity of thought that 
dwelt within ; and when she had so lightly 
offered to take the chances of the destruction 
of that perfect beauty, the Mother Superior 
at first had been shocked at the thought of 
permitting it. But other reflections came to 
her, and she concluded to allow Sister Agnes 
and Sister Mary to go forth on their mission. 

Alone in her little cell, sick with grief, 
Amy threw herself prostrate upon her bed 
in mute despair. For a while she lay as one 
dead, with her eyes fixed upon the ceiling 
above. At last they moved and rested upon 
the picture of the Ecce Homo, which hung 
upon the wall ; a crown of thorns upon the 
divine head, and the agonized expression of 
the face awakened a responsive throb in 
the heart of the suffering woman, and the 
tears began to flow. 

“Oh, Vergne! Vergne!” she moaned; 
“why did you come only to leave me so 
wretched with the hopeless love which I 
thought I had subdued. Holy Mother,” 


THE SACRIFICE. 


177 


she prayed, “ intercede for me at the throne 
of God, for I am not fit to ask his forgive- 
ness. I weep not only for my fall, but for 
the human love that my soul longs for. 
God pity me ! God pity me, wretch that I 
am ! ” she cried, “ and incline my heart to 
return to the path of duty.” 

As she prayed, strength came to her in 
her great struggle to subdue her spirit, and 
with the habitual self-control which she had 
exercised, both in the world and since her 
retirement from it, she recovered herself 
sufficiently to rise. She must write to 
Vergne, she remembered, so that he should 
get her letter in the morning’s mail. Tak- 
ing her pen she pondered long, the tears 
falling like rain as she bent her head over 
her task. “What shall I say? How can I 
write farewell?” Partially restraining her 
emotion, she wrote : 

“Vergne: — 

“ It is useless for me to seek to conceal 
the love I bear you. Our paths diverge — 
Duty calls you one way, while I must go 
another; and, although the parting is as 
death, we must obey. Let us try to live in 
the faith, and believe that all is ordered for 
the best. Earthly life is but a short span ; 


178 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

it will soon be over, and, as we hope for 
eternal happiness, let our deeds be such 
that in the great beyond we may meet, and 
our souls be forever at peace. God bless 
you ! God bless you, is the prayer of my 
heart. 

Amy.” 

Vergne, frenzied with the pain and heart- 
ache which the reception of Amy’s letter 
wrought, almost determined to take her 
forcibly from her retreat, especially as he 
recalled that blissful moment when he held 
her in his arms, and the acknowledgment of 
her love in submitting to his caresses. He 
had come to California with a mad hope of 
inducing her to go with him to some far-off 
country ; and as he read her farewell words 
he sank into the depths of despair. Page 
after page, hour after hour, he wrote, pour- 
ing forth his burning love, imploring her not 
to let her mistaken sense of duty complete 
the wreck which his first error had begun. 
As he pleaded, the blinding tears which fell 
from his eyes, and the outpouring ol his 
overwrought brain in language expressive 
of intense feeling, brought rest at last. 

Then, taking up her missive once more, 
he read, this time between the lines; and, 


THE sacrifice. 


m 


noting the self-denial and the traces of tears 
upon its pages, he kissed the little peace- 
bearing message again and again, and sank 
back into his cushioned chair in profound 
exhaustion. He thought of home, of Flor- 
ence, of Mrs. Dayton — so loving and kind. 
His guileless heart never once suspected 
her of treachery. He alone had been re- 
sponsible. He alone must bear the blame. 
Then little Amy’s face came up before him, 
and he felt almost as if he heard her call. 

“Amy!” he answered. “My child!” 
His eyes rested upon the volume of burning 
words that his heart had dictated. He 
reached out, gathered up the pages, lighted 
a match to them, and, placing them in the 
grate, stood watching them as they writhed 
and twisted and burned to ashes. “ Thus 
perish all my earthly hopes,” he said mourn- 
fully, and again he took up the pen and 
wrote: 

“ Amy:— 

“ I shall try to do as you wish. It is 
the only hope that is left me. Pray for 
me daily, hourly, for I cannot. Perhaps, 
through your prayers, God will look down 
upon us in pity. 

“ Forever thine, 

“ Vergne.” 


CHAPTER XXIL 


THE EPIDEMIC. 

Upon the side of a bleak and barren hill 
stood along, low, rudely-constructed wooden 
building. The rocks from which the site 
was irregularly hewn rose forbiddingly be- 
hind it, and, by reason of imperfect drain- 
age, kept the building damp and cold 
with the water which constantly dripped 
down from their sides. 

The winds, whistling around its corners 
and through its numerous apertures, carried 
with them miasma from the stagnant waters 
of the swamp-land upon which the structure 
faced, adding that poison to the infection of 
the terror-stricken victims of the small-pox 
epidemic that were confined within its walls. 

Two silent figures, dressed in the sombre 
attire of sisters of charity, walked along 
the dreary pathway to the rear of the high 
enclosure, and, in answer to their ring at the 
gate, were admitted by an attendant, who 
led the way to the house. As the door 
opened for them to enter, and they inhaled 
the contagion which the draught sent to greet 
their nostrils, their faces paled, and Sister 


THE EPIDEMIC. 


i8i 


Agnes almost fainted as her sensitive organ- 
ization felt its sickening effects ; but she ral- 
lied, and walked bravely in to perform the 
task to which she had dedicated herself. 

The winter was one. of the most severe 
that had ever visited San Francisco, and 
many of the poor patients, suffering from 
insufficient care, were huddled together 
near a stove, trying to keep warm and 
free from the draughts which were contin- 
ually playing around them. They had little 
in the way of pastime to distract their 
minds from their unfortunate condition, and 
scarcely the necessities of life required by 
common humanity, for the sympathies of 
even the most charitable had been lost 
in abhorrence of the dread disease, and 
in the efforts to keep the mind from 
dwelling upon the place whose very name 
was suggestive of loathing, since it was a 
home for lepers as well as of contagion. 

It had been impossible to retain assistants 
at any price in that wretched abode, and the 
patients and nurses were forced to receive 
attention from the convalescent cases, who 
were not permitted to leave the place until 
recovered. 

Sisters Agnes and Mary lost no time in 
preparation, but set about their task at once, 


1 82 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

continuing to work night and day among 
the sufferers from the epidemic, snatching 
moments of sleep at intervals only during 
the duties of the long, weary nights, until at 
last, overcome with her vigils and the infec- 
tion, Sister Agnes succumbed a victim to 
the disease in its most malignant form. For 
weeks she suffered under the virulence of 
the attack, not wanting for attention, how- 
ever, from Sister Mary as well as from the 
convalescent patients, grateful for her for- 
mer kindness to them, and it was only 
through their most careful and sympathetic 
nursing that she was able to rise again. 

Sister Agnes had taken a severe cold in 
her first attempt to sit up, which had caused 
a relapse of the disease. As she lay upon her 
bed and felt the wind blowing through the 
crevices of the damp, cold room, and knew 
that she was occupying one of the best in the 
house, she wondered how the patients, ex- 
posed as they were, could ever be restored 
to health. U nutterable pity filled her breast 
for the wretched lepers, who, from their rock- 
bound retreat, with only the outlook of the 
dismal swamp before them, were condemned 
as prisoners in this ruinous tenement to pass 
their existence in untold misery. 

Months passed before she was allowed to 


THE EPIDEMIC. 


rS3 


leave the place, and only then on account 
of the insufficiency of the accommodations 
in the overcrowded retreat. But when she 
had finally recovered from the disease, it 
had left as a sequel a hacking cough. Light 
at first, but gradually increasing in fre- 
quency, it had clung to her, until Sister 
Agnes fell into a slow decline. 


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CHAPTER I. 


Force rules the world still. 

Has ruled it, shall rule it; 

Meekness is weakness; 

Strength is triumphant, 

Over the whole earth 
Still is it Thor’s I>ay.” 

From The Challenge of Thor. 

— Longfellow, 

THE INFLUENCE OF FRIENDSHIP. 

“What a blind, incomplete mass is human- 
ity! We grope through life in the dark, 
mere accidents of fortune or misfortune, 
which makes or mars, as the case may be. 
It is seldom by intent or design that we are 
what we are; for even the few who are given 
foresight to plan and determine and to perse- 
vere in the execution of their life-plans, find 
the results only in part their own making, 
and never exactly what they wish. 

“We are responsible to God and to our- 
selves. We are endowed with body, soul, 
and the power to reason; yet that power is 
so often imperfectly directed in its first 
efforts, regardless of its adaptability, that 
it leaves us to struggle in the great conflict 
of life for that which its misguidance has 


i88 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


rendered unattainable, and we drift into the 
breakers, to be cast hopeless wrecks upon 
the shores of. Time, to face the Truth that 
stands conquerer at last." 

The writer of the above lines sat in pro- 
found meditation, gazing at the white clouds 
drifting so calmly beneath the bright blue 
sky, as if they contained the solution of the 
problem of life. 

“ Come back! " was said, with playful com- 
mand. “ Had your spirit gone floating into 
space among yonder clouds that you gazed 
at so fixedly? Your eyes had an expression 
as if trying to penetrate into the unknown 
realms beyond, so searching was their look; 
as if your very soul were striving to escape 
from the form that bound it down to earth. 
I should like to know what you were think- 
ing of so intently, you have scarcely spoken 
a word for two hours; and were I not so 
interested in this book, I should have called 
you back to the world long ago." 

The speaker, who sat in a low, willow 
rocking-chair upon a wide veranda which 
surrounded a pretty cottage, might be 
twenty-eight or thirty years of age, but her 
delicate complexion, regular features, and 
deep blue eyes made her appear much 
younger. .She looked compassionately at 


THE INFLUENCE OF FRIENDSHIP. iSQ 

the fair woman who sat opposite, reading in 
her face the anguish that told of loss irre- 
parable and grief unsoothed. 

The one addressed was quite as pleasing 
to look upon as her companion, notwith- 
standing the passing gravity of expression 
on her countenance caused by the intensity 
of her thoughts. Her head, which was 
small and well-shaped, was surrounded by a 
luxuriant growth of auburn hair ; sadness 
and merriment mingled in the earnest gray 
eyes, which were set wide apart beneath a 
full brow, indicating a depth of feeling that 
many overlooked in the piquancy which her 
delicate, ^\^\\y-retroussd nose gave to the 
expression of her face. The red lips, part- 
ing in a smile, disclosed a row of pearly teeth ; 
while the well-rounded chin, concealing a 
reserve force, deluded many into the belief 
that her apparent helplessness and the cir- 
cumstances surrounding her life could be 
made to subserve their interests against hers. 
Yet, withal, it was a strangely tell-tale face to 
one accustomed to read it. 

The little woman to whom it belonged, 
reclined with careless grace in a wide-armed 
chair, was gowned in an artistic combination 
of soft blue-and-white silk. A pencil firmly 
held between the thumb and index finger of 


IQO THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

the hand rested upon the page of the manu- 
script upon which the lines first above were 
written. She was about to reply, when a 
masculine voice, with a strong English 
accent, interrupted : 

“ Tell your fortunes, ladies ? ” 

Both looked up at the intruder who had ap- 
proached them noiselessly and abruptly, hav- 
ing managed to elude the vigilance of the dogs 
by making a ddtour of the lawn. A species 
of the genus homo designated as “ tramp,” 
with all that the word implies, stood before 
them. He was clad in garments that shone 
with accumulations from greasy contact and 
exudations wherever the dust had not mingled 
with and covered them. His long, curling hair 
hung in black, tangled masses around a head 
that disclosed shapely proportions as he re- 
moved his faded brown hat, respectfully, and 
with admiration and surprise expressed in the 
hazel eyes that appeared almost black in their 
deep and penetrating glance. The lower part 
of his face was covered with a thick growth 
of beard, short and neglected, adding to the 
unmistakable signs of dissipation, a “'devil- 
may-care ” sort of look and a total indiffer- 
ence, which latter expression disappeared 
'-om his bearing at the unexpected vision 
that greeted his eyes. 


THE INFLUENCE OF FRIENDSHIP. 


191 


“ I read the palm,” he said, as he noted 
their indifference. “I charge only ‘two bits’; 
I may be able to tell you much.” 

“Let’s have him tell us, Vera,” said Alice, 
the lady who had first broken the silence. 

“Vera — ” thought the tramp, as he heard 
the name pronounced, and his eyes followed 
those of the speaker, no detail of the pic- 
ture which her friend* presented escaping 
his quick glance ; “ rightly named for once, 
I fancy, for if truth and character were ever 
written in one’s face, they are indelibly 
stamped upon that countenance. No need 
of reading the lines in her hand ; the face 
is expressive of deep sorrow which the 
merry twinkle of those eyes cannot conceal 
— complexity there.” 

“ I should like very much to read your 
palm, lady,” he said, as she hesitated. 

“Oh, you fortune-tellers” Vera at last 
replied with good-natured tolerance, and 
looking slightly bored, “say so many bril- 
liant things that never come true ; it isn’t 
worth while wasting one’s time.” 

“ I think this lady is going to engage me, 
madam,” he ventured, partly turning to her 
companion whose hand he noted taking a 
dainty purse from the folds of her dress ; 
“and if I do not give her satisfaction in 


192 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


what I read, I will accept no compensation. 

I do not pretend to see into the future, I 
only read the lines of the palm, as I have 
learned the art.” 

“ I had better leave you alone, Alice ; he 
might tell you something you would not 
want me to hear,” said Vera jestingly. 

Please do not,” Alice replied, with an 
appealing glance. 

There was nothing formidable in the 
tramp’s appearance, while his manner was 
extremely courteous ; yet, that very incon- 
sistency, together with his pursuit, inspired 
them both with distrust, and Vera remained 
seated. 

He took the hand which Alice held out. 
Seating himself on the steps at her feet, he 
studied the delicate palm, occasionally giv- 
ing a shrewd glance at her face as well. 

“Lady,” he said, “you have had much 
illness in your life, and only with the best 
of care may you hope to live many years. 
You must avoid excitement; never give way 
to grief ; and be very careful of your general 
health. You have an affection of the heart, 
I should judge, which is liable at any time 
to prove fatal, unless you exercise great 
caution. You have had two afflictions 
recently in your life. This line carries the 


THE INFLUENCE OF FRIENDSHIP. 


193 


mark' of death — yes, there are two lines, 
each indicating death, which has grieved 
you nearly to that same end. Here is 
another line which denotes loss in the affec- 
tion. I should designate it as a break in 
your domestic life which followed much 
unhappiness, and which will in turn be 
followed by quite as great a measure of 
happiness, thus in a degree balancing your 
life.” 

As the palmist bent over her hand study- 
ing the lines more carefully, a quick glance 
of amazement was interchanged between the 
ladies at the correct diagnosis of the disease 
which had long given them cause to fear. 

“ You will always be surrounded,” he con- 
tinued, “by wealth sufficient to gratify your 
taste for luxury. You are upright, kind, 
and just towards all, but justice to yourself is 
the first principle with you ; hence your life 
will be, comparatively speaking, satisfactory. 
You are strong and self-assertive, demand- 
ing and generally obtaining what is your just 
due ; but you will bear much before making 
the demand. 

“The most eventful part of your existence 
lies in the past and present, or near future. 
There is some disturbance yet to come that 
accident will remove, and a pleasant "life will 


194 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


follow, which is, in a measure, in your' own 
hand; you should choose surroundings con- 
ducive to placidity. You are to be trusted, 
are a good friend, and have a strong apprecia- 
tion of truth and honor in whatever form you 
find it. You would make a dangerous foe.” 

He looked again in her hand, then, 
gently dropping it, said: “There is nothing 
more of special interest to tell you, lady; 
your life is not one of many incidents.” 

“ That is very good; and as a proof that 
you have demonstrated your ability, I see 
my friend is making a place for you to read 
her palm. Here is my fee and hers,” she 
added, dropping a half-dollar into his hand. 

As the tramp accepted the money with a 
polite “ Thank you,” and took the proffered 
seat from Vera, he touched the tips of the 
fingers of the open palm that lay upon the 
freshly-written page. Pausing a moment, 
he looked at her and said: “ Pardon me, 
madam, I shall have to study your hand, as 
it is unusually lined,” and, as he glanced 
down, apparently at the palm, his eyes were 
attracted to the page upon which her hand 
rested, and followed nearly every word 
before he spoke again. 

Then he said: “Your hand, lady, indi- 
cates conflict, and a life little understood. 


THE INFLUENCE OF FRIENDSHIP. 


195 


because it is rare in its originality — combin- 
ing many elements, which contend with 
each other at times, as well as with the 
world. Its beginning seems exceedingly 
bright; but deep shadows have been thrown 
across your pathway. You are destined 
soon to achieve fame and fortune, as well 
as happiness,and will live long to enjoy them.” 

That is what all the fortune-tellers pre- 
dict for me,” interrupted Vera, facetiously, 
“ but, unhappily, none of it ever comes true.” 

“You may doubt me if you will, lady,” 
replied the palmister, “ but I read a volume 
in your hand. Do you wish me to con- 
tinue ? ” 

“Oh, proceed,” responded Vera, lightly; 
“let me know all that you see, good or bad.” 

“ Love is strongly defined; faithful devo- 
tion, pure and divine instincts, are indicated 
in this line, which, in the beginning has a 
cross filled with petty annoyances, and 
verges to a point where it is met by another 
cross line, not so deep nor so long and vex- 
atious, as it is like a cross in friendship ; but 
the same characteristic of faithful devotion 
is here. I should say you have been an 
educator, possessing a power of which you 
have been wholly unconscious, and from 
which you have given inspiration to others, 


196 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


opening the way for them, while you have 
remained in the background, unappreciated 
and unknown. The reverse, however, is 
outlined in the future ; you will become — 
I can best illustrate by saying — like a simple 
lever that will move great bodies with little 
effort. Credulity is marked very strongly ; 
even to a fault. Pardon my speaking plainly, 
but I have never seen anything to equal the 
blind confidence you must have in humanity.” 

“Quite an idiot,” interposed Vera so 
I’ve been told.” 

The tramp smiled and replied : “ The 
quality in such excess is quite a detriment, 
surely. Yet lying dormant in your nature 
is a psychic power v/hich contact with the 
world will arouse and cause you to penetrate 
the innermost recesses of souls. In your 
life there have been flashes of that power, 
which, for the moment has enabled you to 
enter into the personality of another, making 
your knowledge of that one absolute ; but 
in your lack of policy it has gained for you 
enemies by disclosing your loathing of the 
deceit you sometimes discover. Your cred- 
ulity has received a shock that has caused 
distrust to rule your life for a time; but 
affection reasserts itself, broadening your 
love for humanity, exciting in you pity and 


THE INFLUENCE OF FRIENDSHIP. 


197 


sympathy for oppression and great desire 
to do good, which is quite as often mis- 
understood. Had your talents been properly 
directed in your young life, you would have 
avoided much trouble. You did not mature 
early, and at first evinced little strength. 
Disappointments have threatened your brain 
with total collapse ; but your wonderful will 
and reserve-power enabled you to rally. 
Your education and philosophy force you to 
realize your own weakness, and through 
that you will henceforth develop a strength 
which will make your innate power felt. 
You will rise above all the petty cares and 
annoyances of life, and in the ideal world to 
which you were born you will learn to sub- 
serve the real, where the real has hitherto 
made use of you through your high ideals. 
From this, great fame and fortune will come 
to you, if you can overcome your abhor- 
rence of drudgery. 

“As a writer, you would be concise, 
explicit, strong and fearless. The restrained 
love-passion in your nature would find 
vent in your writings, adding strength to 
attain the ambitions of your life, and the 
originality of your themes would win for 
you a place in the world of fame. You are 
fortunate in financiering, although you are 


198 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


often preyed upon. You do justice to 
everyone but yourself, and spare not your- 
self in self-condemnation. You are mer- 
curial in disposition ; you love nature and 
liberty; are not domineering, and will not 
be dominated. He who undertakes your 
subjugation engages in an impossible task ; 
but, as you rule, so can you be ruled — 
through love. With you, to fear, means to 
hate. You will endure much for the sake 
of principle, and stand alone upon the 
courage of your convictions. You draw 
within yourself from disappointments, but, 
once having surmounted your troubles, you 
will grow younger as you advance in years.’’ 

“Dear me,” satirically remarked Vera; 
“ I suppose in a hundred years I may hope 
to become quite an infant, ‘sans teeth, sans 
everything. ’” 

“You may laugh at what I have told you, 
but it is clearly defined. Your sense of the 
ludicrous, I omitted to state, though I saw 
it outlined, will always save you in those 
moments of depression which are the 
natural reactions of the lighter impulses of 
your mercurial disposition.” 

“You say that I am stupidly credulous — 
or words to that effect,” said Vera, as the 
tramp was about to protest. “ I have heard 


THE INFLUENCE OF FRIENDSHIP. IQQ 

that so many times in my early life, that I 
know it must be true ; ” then she added, 
doubtingly, “but I am quite willing to 
promise you that, when I win that fame and 
fortune you foretell, I will reward you well 
for the prediction and she looked at him 
with a mingled expression of mischief and 
pity, as she thought, judging by his apparel, 
how much he must need money. 

“ I shall be on hand to claim the reward,” 
he said earnestly; and a flush of shame 
arose to his face as he noted the mirthful 
eyes fixed upon his miserable attire. Then, 
observing the gentle dignity of manner 
which was instantly apparent at his pre- 
sumption, he knew that it precluded the 
possibility of any further remarks. 

“ I thank you, ladies, and will bid you 
good-day,” he said, as he reluctantly rose to 
depart. 

“ Stay a moment,” said Vera, as her hand 
touched the electric button at the front 
door; “You look fatigued; my people will 
give you some refreshments if you wish.” 

“Thank you, madam,” returned the 
tramp; “you are very kind. I assure you, 
your hospitality does not come amiss.” 

A Japanese boy appeared in answer to 
the summons. “ Tanika,” Vera said, “take 


200 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


this gentleman into the house and get him 
something to eat, and a cup of tea or a glass 
of claret if he desires it.” 

“Tanika made a profound bow as the 
word “gentleman” came from the lips of 
his mistress ; he knew that, in spite of 
appearances, the chance guest must be a 
gentleman, for he had every confidence in 
his mistress’s intuition in that respect. 

“Yes ma’am,” he said gently. Then 
turning to the tramp : “ Come this way, if 
you please,” and he opened wide the door 
for him to enter. 

The palmister turned upon reaching the 
threshold, the color again mounting to his 
cheek as he gave a last glance at the face 
that had so interested him, and which he 
never forgot ; then, bowing with the air of 
a courtier, he followed the servant through 
the hall and dining-room, into the kitchen, 
where Tanika and Minnie, the black cook, had 
been instructed to feed the hungry who stray- 
ed by the door, and send them on their way. 

“ What a strange man,” remarked Alice, 
as the door closed upon his retreating fig- 
ure. “ Aren’t you afraid to allow him to go 
through the house like that ? 

“Afraid? No. Didn’t you observe how 
gentle his manners were ? He certainly is 


THE INFLUENCE OF FRIENDSHIP. 


201 


an educated man and knows how to deport 
himself. I think it safe to trust him.” 

“ Credulity,” laughingly remarked Alice ; 
“will you never understand that the gentle- 
ness you see in people is only a reflection 
of yourself ? You are always taking in 
something like that, and always being taken 
in, in return.” 

“Oh, well,” said Vera wearily, “it is bet- 
ter to give to the unworthy, than to let 
one who is worthy pass without heed. I 
presume he will be another to take me for 
a good-natured fool, giving him bread in 
return for the flattering fortune he foretold 
me. But little does it signify what bethinks, 
or whether he is worthy or unworthy, so long 
as he needs help. I have learned from my 
own experience that whatever appearances 
may be, one should study the cause, not the 
effect.” Then, changing her tone, she said 
mockingly, and with an affected English 
accent : “ I presume the cause of that man s 
condition, according to the lines in his face, 
as I have learned the art to read them, is 
too much liqueur; for he certainly looked 
dreadfully dissipated.” 

“ Did you notice how soft his hands 
were?” said Alice, amused, “and he really 
acts like a gentleman.” 


202 


THE WOMAN AND THE WOUI.D. 


“Yes/' replied Vera, contemplatively; 
“he appears to me like one of those worth- 
less, well-bred Englishmen, whose family 
have sent him here to prevent his disgrac- 
ing them at home, and one whom the “ re- 
mittance man ” has long since forgotten. 1 
think the old English law of primogeniture, 
leaving the titles and estates to the eldest 
son, and attempting to marry the younger 
ones to money, throws upon the world as 
many worthless vagabonds as spring up 
from the slums. In order to maintain them- 
selves in the rank to which they are born, 
without the honest effort so much despised 
by their class, they become hunters of for- 
tunes, to which they have no moral right, 
thus depriving them of that true manhood 
which alone should entitle them to be ranked 
as gentlemen.” 

“ I quite agree with you,” said Alice ; “ but, 
in the glitter of gold and craving for rank, 
one loses sight of the immorality of those 
marriages. ‘ Fair is foul, and foul is 
fain’ ” 

“ No,” replied Vera ; “we seldom stop to 
think of the self-abasement that one should 
feel in participating in a marriage for money 
or title alone, which is nothing more or less 
than barter and sale, and can end only in 


THE INFLUENCE OF FRIENDSHIP. 


203 


mutual contempt, as must any form of pros- 
titution.” 

“ Our fortune-teller, if he is of that class, 
evidently preferred the freedom of a vag- 
abond life. By the way, what a fortune he 
predicted for you ! ” observed Alice. 

“And as liable to prove true as have all 
the others I believe, notwithstanding my 
imbecile credulity.” 

“ Don’t be so sure,” returned Alice. “ Who 
knows ? I myself have great confidence 
in your future. Surely there must be some 
recompense for the past, which, in your 
youth, has been fraught with so many trials ; 
and for those I know you are blameless. 
My only fear is that you will wear yourself 
out in this seclusion from the world, allow- 
ing your thoughts to dwell upon what can- 
not be changed.” 

Alice Hargrave had known Vera in- 
timately since the beginning of her resi- 
dence in New York. Interested alike in 
music and literature, they had been drawn 
together by the congeniality of their com- 
mon pursuit, and had gradually become 
fast friends. Once a widow, Alice had 
remarried very unhappily, but she had 
endured and 'suffered in silence, and could 
sympathize with Vera in her greater trials. 


204 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


She was now visiting her in her ideal re- 
treat, and, seeing much of her sadness, had 
felt that it was her duty to induce her friend 
to change her mode of living. 

“The past is gone,” she continued, “the 
future is full of hope and happiness, and 
you, so just and kind to all but yourself, are 
surely more entitled to those blessings than 
many others. Why should you bury your- 
self in this isolated place in humiliation over 
mistakes for which you are only partly re- 
sponsible, and thus gratify the malignity 
which rejoices to read unhappiness in your 
face ? ” 

“ Unhappiness! My dear, I never was so 
happy or so much at rest in my life; free, 
independent, ‘monarch of all I survey,’ with 
no one to dictate or harass me. Why, only 
the other morning, as I stood in my beauti- 
ful vineyard on the side of the hill and 
inhaled the pure, invigorating atmosphere, 
as expansive to the soul as to the lungs, I 
exclaimed in the exhilaration of the moment: 
‘ I feel like a Syrian princess just stepped 
down out of the Bible.’ And as I gazed 
upon those magnificent mountains towering 
above me in their grandeur, the fertile 
valley with its ripening grain and orchards 
of fruit, the sparkling lake so clear and 


THE INFLUENCE OF FRIENDSHIP. 


205 


bright, my pretty rose-covered cottage nest- 
ling among the trees down here by the 
brook, my own vines at my feet, laden as 
they were with huge stems of luscious 
grapes which suggested the bountifulness 
of nature, I asked, what more could I wish ?’' 

“I acknowledge, my dear,” said Alice, 
“ that it is very beautiful and, doubtless, 
most consoling to a nature like yours ; but 
the monotony of it is pathetic. 

“ In what way pathetic ?” 

“ Why, the fact of your seeking this 
isolated ranch on which to live alone with 
only your servants and an occasional visitor 
— and you so changed.” 

“ I know I am changed,” interrupted Vera, 
with a sigh, “but it is for the better, though 
you may think it for the worse. My bitter 
experiences have at last taught me the dif- 
ference between ‘seeming’ and ‘being,’ and 
while I am still more or less credulous and 
know that there are many honest souls in 
the world, I have become weary of looking 
for them, and have turned to nature for 
peace. And here I find it, ‘the peace,’ — I 
say it without irreverence — ‘ that passeth 
understanding.’ When I sit absorbed, as 
you fancy, in morbid thought, it is that 
peace and rest pervading my soul, and I 


206 


THE WOMAN AND THE - WORLD. 


am so content that I sometimes think that 
if I could only close my eyes forever in that 
reposeful condition, how gladly would I 
enter into the perfect rest of eternity. It is 
heaven to me.” 

Her tone was measured and impressive, 
and Alice for the moment felt the soothing 
effect of Vera’s magnetic voice and earnest- 
ness of manner. After a dreamy pause, in 
which no sound was heard save the singing 
of the birds in the gently-sighing trees and 
the distant murmer of the brook, Alice 
finally broke the silence as if summing up 
her words. 

“You’re a rara avis, my dear, and I can 
easily perceive how one, so wholly misunder- 
stood as you must have been in this selfish, 
jostling world, could meet with such matri- 
monial disaster. But, ordinarily, one could 
find solace rather in the conventionalities of 
life than in this quiet existence, which, how- 
ever beautiful and idyllic, is oppressive in its 
sameness, notwithstanding the interest and 
charm your presence lends to it.” 

“ It would doubtless be monotonous to 
one not interested as I am ; but to me it is 
never so. Each day brings its cares, which 
divert me from myself, and, when tired, I 
sit and rest with nature for companionship. 


THE INFLUENCE OF FRIENDSHIP. 


207 


Had you seen me when I first came to live 
on this ranch, with but one thought, to 
get away from everybody and forget the 
world, you would have had greater cause 
for apprehension, and would have thought 
my condition more than pathetic. I have 
at times been upon the verge of insanity, pac- 
ing up and down my den in the intensity 
of hatred at outraged* justice, my hands 
firmly locked together upon my aching head, 
until I was appalled at the look that would 
be reflected from my mirror ; in such a mood 
would I throw myself upon the floor in an 
agony of humiliation, with only my Creator 
to look down upon and pity me.” 

“ Insanity is what I fear for you, my 
friend,” replied Alice; “ and I will tell you 
something now that I have never uttered to 
any human being. You heard the palmister 
say that my greatest grief was caused through 
death. My dearest sister, who was more 
to me than a mother, combining as she did 
the qualities of both, died . in a private 
asylum, the fatal result of giving way to 
grief as you have done. Overwhelmed, like 
you, with domestic trouble, she was ever 
seeking solitude. She would sit for 
hours without speaking, as I fear you would, 
did you not feel compelled to entertain 


208 


IHE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


me ; and each time you make the effort I 
can hardly restrain my tears ; it is so like 
her symptoms at the beginning of her malady. 
People bored her just as they do you, and 
she finally refused to speak to any one, and 
at last even to eat. Death came at length 
to relieve us all. It was given out that she 
died of typhoid fever, but the true cause of 
her death was paresis of the brain, a dis- 
ease which is becoming alarmingly prev- 
alent, I learn, in this exciting age of prog- 
ress ; and I apprehend serious consequences 
for you if you do not leave this life of 
seclusion and force yourself to mingle with 
the world.” 

As Alice proceeded with the story of her 
sister’s death the tears welled up in her eyes 
and brought the moisture to Vera’s in 
sympathy. 

“ I am sorry, Alice dear,” she said, “ that 
I have caused you so much anxiety ; but you 
mistake me. I admit that I am sometimes 
wretched, but my unhappiness is nothing 
compared to the misery I have endured in sub- 
mitting to injustice. Fortunately I have 
reached that point where nature has come 
to my rescue, and the intensity of my suffer- 
ing has passed away. I find a balm in health- 
ful out-dbor occupation and supervision, 


THE INFLUENCE OF FRIENDSHIP. 


209 


which contact with the world does not yield 
me ; the country life has restored my health 
and assisted reason, which had almost for- 
saken me, to resume its sway. I know I 
am dreadfully changed, and am sometimes 
remiss in my duties as hostess ; but since 
you have recalled me to myself by the nar- 
ration of such a painful event, I am de- 
termined to exert my will, and you shall see 
that if I have changed so much from what I 
was, I am capable of changing as decidedly 
again.” 

“ I hope so,” said Alice, “ and that you 
will realize that your retirement places you 
in a defenceless position when you should 
be in the world giving blow for blow ; for 
while the world really sympathizes with the 
wrongs of women, it still extends the right 
hand of fellowship to the scoundrel who 
causes the wTong, and leaves the injured 
one alone with her sorrow. Again, a per- 
sonality like yours is not forgotten in a day. 
Your nature makes warm and lasting friends 
and as bitter enemies, and the very people 
you are compelled to employ are made use 
of by those who hate you.” 

But what can they say ? ” 

“ What can they not say? Have you not 
learned that there is no tongue so vile as 


210 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


that of a man who has been outwitted by 
the woman he has wronged — no persecution 
too cruel to visit upon her helplessness ? 
For to be a woman is to be helpless in this 
selfish world, be she what she may, and 
there is a fraternity of pleasure-seekers and 
unthinking men, who stand by each other 
in their sins and follies, and without question 
circulate slanderous reports — too readily 
accepted as true by a class of people who 
have a canine hunger for scandal/’ 

“ What you say is true, no doubt, Alice ; 
but, should I go into the world again, I 
could only let my daily life speak for me, 
as it has done, with those who know me well. 
If it is not a sufficient defense, there is no 
use making explanations to people preju- 
diced by falsehood. What can a woman 
do against a cabal such as you speak of, 
when once its baleful eye has been turned 
upon her? She might as well expect to 
pass in safety through a pack of ravenous 
wolves. Alice, is it well to fight them ? 
Human nature is very like the animal, and 
we should learn from the brutes to avoid 
those whose instinct it is to prey upon us.” 

“ Pardon me, Vera, but I feel it my duty, 
even at the risk of incurring your dis- 
pleasure, to rouse you from the peril of 


THE INFLUENCE OF PRtENDSHlF. 21 1 

your position. Public opinion, I know, is 
as liable to be based upon false reports as 
upon truth ; and I know also that you are 
too brave to run from it when you feel 
that you are in the right.” 

“ Yes, but not when my own self-con- 
demnation for my mistakes is so strong. I 
must appear either a fool or a knave — and I 
am neither. Fate has pursued me ; I begin 
to think it has selected me for a special 
purpose, if only to flash the danger-signal. 
For me, life in the world you speak of is 
ended. You know, Alice, I never cared for 
its companionship.” 

“ Why will you persist in such thoughts? 
Life has just begun for you, if you will it. 
You possess the power, if you choose to 
exercise it, that would place you in any posi- 
tion you desire, with your natural endow- 
ments and the means at your command, 
and, without flattery, your charming person- 
ality — ” 

“Yes, that charming personality,” inter- 
rupted Vera ironically, “has wrecked my 
life.” 

. “ Many a one, my dear, would prefer the 
wreck of your life to the uselessness of others; 
for if it is a wreck, as you persist in saying, 
it was a noble ship, else it would not stand 


212 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


out SO long and bravely against the beating 
of the waves.” 

“You are very complimentary, Alice, but 
you must remember that the world does not 
see with your eyes ; and public opinion, no 
matter whether it is based upon truth or upon 
falsehood, is a difficult current to stem, and 
requires a strength of character that exists 
only in the martyr. Christ was crucified for 
it; for it the Christians suffered the tortures 
of the Inquisition; the massacre of St. 
Bartholomew was one of the horrors result- 
ing from public opinion. Individuals have 
failed, and why should I place myself in a 
position where I shall be accountable to a 
thing I care so little for as the world you ask 
me to enter ?” 

The October twilight began to close 
around the two women who were conversing 
so earnestly. The blazing log in the quaint, 
old-fashioned fire-place in the drawing-room, 
looked inviting as it threw its flickering 
light about the handsomely-decorated walls 
within, upon which hung rare paintings and 
engravings. Entering, with her guest, the 
hostess touched an electric bell. 

“We shall have supper served here, 
Tanika,”she said, as the attendant appeared 
in response to her summons. 


THE INFLUENCE OF FRIENDSHIP. 213 

The pine log creaked and snapped and 
fell apart, and a sudden burst of flame from 
the escaping pitch flashed a lurid light upon 
a picture of Nero, seated enthroned in the 
center of a vast populace, viewing with 
gloating cruelty and gratified brutality the 
slaughter of the Christians as they were 
being torn limb from limb upon the rack, 
crucified, burned, or devoured by wild beasts 
trained for the sport. Was that insatiable 
thirst for the destruction of humanity, in those 
days of barbarism when death was swift and 
sure, any more terrible than the refined 
cruelty of this later age, which gratifies it- 
self with a slow torturing of its victims — the 
persecution of helplessness often through 
iniquitous public opinion ? Has God, in his 
illimitable breadth, designed man, whom He 
created in His own likeness, to so narrow his 
soul when there was room for such great 
expansion ? Must the likeness end in such 
an image ? 


CHAPTER II. 


THE WORLD FORGETTING. 

Alice seated herself at the piano, whde 
Vera rolled an English breakfast-table 
near the grate. The Japanese quickly 
returned with a tray and snowy cloth, and a 
simple repast was soon spread before the 
two friends. 

“ Come,” said the hostess, as Alice finished 
the andante of a symphony from Mozart, 
“let’s have supper, and afterward put in the 
evening with music.” 

“ In a moment, Vera ; I want to run over 
this movement once more. I seem to have 
just caught the spirit of it.” 

And again she played the slow, soft minor 
chords that appeal so strongly to the soul 
attuned to harmony, and Vera listened 
dreamily, the firelight flickering upon her 
face and in and out among the folds of her 
blue-and-white gown. Her hand rested 
carelessly on the arm of the stately, antique 
chair in which she sat, its high, carved 
back and red upholstery forming a rich set- 
ting for the fair face and form outlined 
against it. 


THE WORLD FORGETTING. 


215 

As she turned from the piano, Alice ex- 
claimed in admiration: “Vera, what a 
picture you make in your white-and-blue 
with a background of red ! It suggests the 
Goddess of Liberty in a new design.” 

“ That is very sweet of you, Alice. Did 
I not know it to be your patriotism that 
inspires you with admiration, I should be 
consumed with vanity,” replied Vera, ex- 
travagantly. Speaking of the Goddess of 
Liberty, did it ever strike you what a satire 
lies in that embodiment of liberty — that 
woman, the only piece of humanity which 
has no liberty, except in death, should be 
blazoned forth to the world as the emblem 
of it?” 

“ ‘ Concise and explicit,’ as the tramp de- 
scribed you would be. You should become 
a fifteen-minutes speaker for the Equal 
Rights Movement ; you put such a world 
of meaning in so few words.” 

“ That is scarcely my forte, Alice, I am 
too slow of speech ; I can usually think and 
manage better than I can talk. But come, 
we have had enough serious conversation 
for to-day. Draw up your chair and let us 
dispose of this supper. After you have re- 
moved the dishes, Tanika,” she said, turning 
to the Japanese, “you will come in and 


2i6 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


dance for us, and tell Minnie that she can 
give us some of her impersonations.” 

“ Yes ma’am,” answered the Japanese in 
a soft, gentle tone, and with a ceremonious 
bow peculiar to the better-bred of his 
nation. 

Minnie, a colored woman, who acted as 
cook, and made herself generally useful, had 
been a faithful servant to Vera since her 
advent in California. Through all her mis- 
tress’s severe trials the maid had clung to her 
with a faithfulness equalled only by that of 
her dog. She had been very trying at 
times, in her wild untamed nature, and Vera 
had attempted to dispense with her services 
when she had broken up her home ; but 
Minnie, with the tears rolling down her 
black face, had cried out against it. “ Doan 
send me away, missy,” she would say. “ If 
yo’ only knowed as how I lubed yo’. I’d do 
anyting in de world to help yo’; I swar I 
would.” 

“ But, Minnie,” protested her mistress, “ I 
have no home now, and I am so restless and 
unhappy I do not know to-day what I may 
do, or where I may go, next week.” 

“ Neber mine, missy; lemme stay ’til yo’ 
finds out. I doan car’ fur no pay, only doan 
send me away, cause yo’s de only one what 


THE WORLD FORGETTING. 


217 


hab done me any good; and I’se perfectly 
’tented not to go roun’ de country wid dem 
play actors no mo’; an all de time befo’ I 
come to lib wid yo’, I jes neber could get to 
likin nobody, but yo’s been good to me, 
neber finds fault like de fine ladies I worked 
for befo’, who used to stomp dey feet at me 
jes’ as if I war nobody. But I paid dem 
back. I used to gib way der close to de po’ 
people when dey’d come long beggin.” 

“ Why, Minnie, I always thought you 
were a good Roman Catholic!” 

“ So I is, missy ; I says my prars ebery 
night and mornin’, an ” 

“ But don’t you know the good Book 
says,” interrupted her mistress: “ If thine 
enemy smite thee on the one cheek to turn 
the other ?” 

“ Oh, yes, missy, I knows all ’bout dat; 
but, yo’ see, dat ar man what wrote dat neber 
libed in San Francisco. Yo’ gwine fo’ to turn 
yo’ oder cheek out heah, dey gib dat a slap 
too, shua nuf, den want to kick yo’ besides. 
Dat’s what dey want to do wid dis niggah, 
jes’ cause I’se brack; an’ one time when my 
ole missy slapped me on boaf cheeks, what 
I turned ’cordin to Scriptur, I jes’ pitched in 
and licked her good, and lef and went wid de 
play actors. But yo’ jes’ neber speak cross 


2i8 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


to no one; an ebery night, when I sez my 
prars, I sez to de Dressed Virgin to pray to 
make me jes’ as good as yo’ is.’’ 

“ But, Minnie, I am not one to pattern 
after.” 

“ Oh, yes, yo’ is, missy. Yo’s jes’ like one 
of dem saints what de priest tole us ’bout 
when dey preaches, only yo’ neber talks 
’ligion; but yo’s always doin’ good fo’ some- 
body, kind’o on de sly, neber let’s nobody 
find it out.” 

“Oh, well, I do that because I don’t want 
to be bothered with people, Minnie; and 
besides, those upon whom Providence, or 
de good Lor’, as you say, has bestowed 
wealth and ability, owe something in return, 
and we are only paying our just debts when 
we give to the poor; there’s no special merit 
in that.” 

“ Oh, yes ; dat’s all right, missy, but 
brack Minnie aint no fool. I didn’ trabbel 
roun’ as comedian ob de coon troupe fo’ 
nuffin. Yo’tinkyo’ keep all yo’ trubble hid 
way from me; yo’ tink I doan know ’bout yo’ 
lying in yo’ bed ebery night lookin’ jes’ like a 
dead woman, wid yo’ eyes a shinin’ like stars, 
waitin’ fo’ de boss to come home; yo’ tink 
Minnie war asleep, but I neber could sleep 
when I knowed yo’ war wake, fo’ ebery few 


THE WORLD FORGETTING. 


219 


minutes I’d hab to go peek in frough de 
curtain to look at yo’, an’ den when de boss 
come in I say I hope she skunned him alive 
fo’ keeping yo’ wake like dat; and I listened, 
and yo’ neber say a word, ’cept what war 
kind an’ good, an’ he’d kiss yo’ good-night 
or good-mornin’, an’ yo’d turn ober an’ go to 
sleep jes’ like a little chile.” 

Oh ! Minnie, that was very wrong of 
you to listen.” 

“But I dun gone do it no mo’, cause I 
neber heard nuffin nohow. And when I’d 
wait on yo’ at de breakfas’-table, you’d be 
jes’ as pleasant as if yo’ had a good night’s 
sleep which yo’ po’ head needed so much 
after writin’ fo’ him mos’ ob de day. Den 
when dis chile could stan it no mo’, an yo’ 
knowed as how I lubed yo’, yo’ let me come 
in an’ stay wid yo’, an I tried to chee yo’ up, 
missy, I did. An’ I’ll be so good all de 
time, missy, for now I wants to go whar de 
good folks go, an’ I’s jes’ waitin’ roun’ for de 
gittin up mornin’. Please doan send me 
’way. My heart ’ud break if yo’ do.” 

In such a manner Minnie argued with her 
mistress, and Vera, in appreciation of her 
affection and fidelity, had kept her until 
she had become a necessity to her in her 
isolation. 


220 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


In the disregard of conventionalism, none 
knew so well as Vera when and where to 
draw the line which, through her strong 
personality, unconsciously made itself dis- 
tinctly felt ; so without sacrifice of her 
native dignity, the hostess with pardonable 
abandon to the freedom as well as to the 
seclusion of her retreat, had waived all for- 
malities in her determination to make the 
evening pleasant for her friend. 

“ Apropos of the tramp,” she resumed, as 
she poured the tea into a dainty china cup 
and gave it to Tanika to pass to Alice, “ I 
heard or read somewhere what a sad time 
one of them had while sleeping in a friendly 
haystack with his comrade. The story may 
be old though.” 

“ Let’s have it,” said Alice; “ If it is old I 
presume it will bear repeating.” 

“ Tramp Jim said as he awoke: ‘ O Bill, I 
had a horrible dream, and when I awoke the 
cold perspiration was rolling off me, I was 
that scared.’ ‘ What was i: ? ’ asked his com- 
panion. ‘ I dreamed I was working.’ ” 

Both laughed, and Alice said, “ I don’t 
think by the looks of our tramp’s hands that 
he ever did a day’s work in his life.” 

“ Probably not,” replied Vera, as she 
carved a huge baked potato that had been 


THE WORLD FORGETTING. 


221 


grown in her field, and helped Alice to a 
generous portion. Then taking the sugar 
from Tanika she lightly hummed a cadenza 
from the duetto of Semir amide ct Arsace; 
“ Do you remember that, Alice?’’ she said, 
taking a mouthful of bread and butter as 
she arose and went to the piano to play the 
aria. 

Alice sang the first part of it, which Vera, 
with a sweet contralto, finished. Then to- 
gether they sang the allegro giusto. As 
they ended with the trill in perfect time and 
harmony, the hostess, quite in the spirit of 
singing, returned to the table saying : “We 
will try that again after supper.” 

Vera had a strong will-power, and, when 
she felt the necessity, could turn from serious 
to gay. Unpleasant thoughts should be 
banished. Alice had been much interested 
in her book in the afternoon, and the hostess 
had taken occasion to indulge in a reverie 
and write, as had become a habit with her. 
Their long conversation had been a relief to 
her; human sympathy is so dear; and she 
appreciated her loving friend’s sincere devo- 
tion. The reaction of her seriousness had 
come, and Alice felt the power of Vera’s 
magnetism as her naturally happy nature 
appeared to enliven the evening, and her 


222 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


informal hospitality and lively sallies drew 
forth an equal response from her friend. 
They sang and chatted, and the old joyous 
laugh that had always clung to Vera and 
charmed the listener with its ring of hon- 
esty rippled forth in merriment, as the sense 
of humor took possession of her. 

Tanika stood back respectfully and lis- 
tened in silent amusement. When they 
withdrew their chairs from the table, at a 
signal from the hostess he removed all 
evidence of the meal as quietly as he had 
produced it. 

They were exchanging pleasantries, and 
Alice was in the midst of the narration of a 
very funny story, when a deep bass voice 
from the hall rang out in clear tones — ''Dorn- 
inus vobiscum;'' and a high soprano re- 
sponded, "'Et cum spiritu tuo'' Again the 
bass sounded — “//^ missa est” 

“What is that?” inquired Alice in aston- 
ishment. 

As if in answer to her query, Minnie, 
fantastically dressed, entered with long 
tragic strides, her arms folded in stage fash- 
ion, and, taking her place at the end of the 
large drawing-room, recited in a ridiculous 
manner, yet most effectively, some of the 
well-known lines from Hamlet : 


THE WORLD FORGETTING. 


223 


To be, or not to be, dat am de question — 

Whedder ’tis nobler in de mind to suffer 
De slings and arrows ob outrageous fortune, 

Or to take arms agin a sea ob troubles, 

An by ’posin ’em end 'em? To die, to sleep: 

No mo’^ — an by a sleep to say we end 
De heart-aches, and de fousand natural shocks 
Dat flesh am heir to — 'tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wished. 

To die — to sleep! — perchance to dream; 

Ay, dere's de rub — 

Minnie, at this juncture, began to scratch 
her head trying to recollect the balance of 
the soliloquy. Memory failing her, she 
passed over the remaining lines to Ophelia’s 
entrance, saying: 

Soft you now! — de fair Ophelia. 

Her memory still being at fault, she com- 
menced again with the Queen’s remark to 
Hamlet later on: 

Dis am de bery coinage ob yo’ brain 
Dis bodiless creation; ecstasy 
Am bery cunnin in. 

Ecstasy! My pulse as yo’s duf temperately keep time 
And makes a healthful music. It am not madness 
Dat I hab uttered; bring me to de test 
And I de matter will reward; which madness would 
gambol from 

Mudder, fo’ lub ob grace, don’t you lay dat ar 

Unction to yo’ soul, dat not yo’ trespass 

But my madness speaks 

Confess yo’ sef to Heaben 

Repent what’s past, avoid what is to come 

An’ do not spread de compost on de weeds 

To make dem ranker. Forgib me dis my virtue; 


224 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


Fo’ in de fatness ob dese pursy times 
Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg — 

Yea, curb an’ woo for leave to do him good. 

Then, in a lighter voice, she exclaimed, 

“ O, Hamlet! Dow hast dept me heart in twain. 

Trow away de wusser, an’ lib de purer with de odder 
hap.” 

Thus she continued on, also giving scenes 
from Ophelia, imitating the tone in which 
she had heard the lines given while a maid 
with one of the leading actresses. Finishing 
her performance with a plantation melody 
and grotesque dance, she threw herself down 
exhausted by the side of the fire-place at 
her mistress’s feet. 

Then Tanika reappeared, dressed in Jap- 
anese costume, which he always wore when 
not engaged in household labor, consisting 
of a fawn-colored silk robe extending from 
the neck to the ankles, gathered in at the 
waist by a handsomely-embroidered sash of 
soft red silk. White stockings and straw 
sandals completed his attire. 

Taking his place in the center of a large 
Oriental rug, which he had cleared for the 
occasion, he danced and sang; his graceful 
movements accompanied by the low, sweet 
monotone of the tune; his hands upraised 
holding a fan in picturesque attitude at the 


THE WORLD FORGETTING. 


225 


back of his head, his whole body bending 
and swaying in the poetry of motion. 

The lamps turned low, throwing a mellow 
light through the orange coloring of their 
shades, the blazing log in the chimney, the 
rich furnishing of the room, the elegant 
attire of the hostess, and the black maid on 
the rug at her feet near the fire-place, formed 
a picture that caused Alice to exclaim to 
herself, as she glanced from mistress to 
servants and took in the artistic arrange- 
ment of the room: “ How real, and how 
romantic ! Is it living in this seductive 
California climate — this land of the siesta,* 
of eternal spring and unfulfilled promise, 
that has led to your desire for dreamy soli- 
tude ? ” And she ceased to wonder why her 
friend, brave and independent as she was, 
livine a real life, with truth and nature for 
companionship, should scorn to explain her 
actions to a false and superficial world that 
is ever striving to appear what it is not. 

Tanika finished his performance, a modest 
blush of pleasure at his mistress’s apprecia- 
tion glowing in his face. As he received 
her thanks and permission to remain with a 
reverential salaam, he quietly withdrew to 
a retired part of the room to listen to the 
singing. 


226 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORI U 


Music, in which Alice and Vera were 
equally interested, brought the evening 
pleasantly to a close, their voices blending 
in perfect harmony as they sang the Veni 
Creator from the “Missa Pro Pace”; and 
the sweet sounds floating out through the 
stillness of the night in that isolated place 
were listened to by the tramp as he stood 
silently observing, through the half-open 
shutters, the scene within. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE FORTUNE TELLER. 

When the palmister had finished the 
bountiful repast of cold chicken, bread and 
delicious home-made butter, which he washed 
down with a goodly supply of fine California 
claret, generously given him by the colored 
maid and graciously served by the dainty 
Japanese, he felt like a different man. As 
he rose to depart, he offered Tanika the 
half-dollar which his mistress’s friend had 
paid him for reading the palms. Tanika 
politely refused to accept the gift, and 
Minnie said in her good-natured way 
as he offered it to her, showing the whites 
of her eyes more distinctly in her effort to 
keep from smiling at the generosity which 
was so incongruous with the shabby appear- 
ance of the caster of horoscopes : “ Good- 
ness, sar, dis heah aint no hotel, ’sides I spec 
yo’d better keep dat ar money fo’ yo’ own 
sef ; I doan guess yo’ got bery much, an’ I 
reckon yo’ need it a heap mo’n I do. We 
doan got no men’s close heah to gib yo’,” 
“but I hope yo’ done git yo’ goge sar, 
’cause yo’ looked mighty hungry,” and Minnie 


228 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


rolled her eyes with satisfaction at sight of 
the scanty remains of the whole chicken 
and the small piece of bread that was left 
from the heaping plate which she had set 
before him. 

“ Yes, thank you,” replied the tramp with 
a smile, understanding that she hoped he 
had eaten all he wished, and, imitating her 
manner, smilingly repeated her words, “ I 
done get my goge dat time shuah.” 

“Ya! ya! ya! ya!” shouted Minnie, as 
she held her sides convulsed with laughter at 
his ridiculous attempt to imitate her negro 
dialect in his broad English tone, whereupon 
the tramp, equally amused at the sight of 
her enjoyment, good-naturedly offered to 
tell her fortune. 

Still giggling, with a loud “he-he-he!” 
Minnie washed her hands at the sink and, 
after wiping them upon the kitchen towel 
that hung upon the roller, held out a dusky 
palm for him to read. 

“You have been a great traveller,” said 
the tramp, as he looked into her hand. 

“ I reckon I has,” spoke up Minnie, “ there 
aint much of no place in this United States 
what I haint been.” 

“ You would be a splendid actress.” 

“ He-he-he! yo’ jes’ hititdar, sar,” giggled 


THE FORTUNE TELLER. 


229 


Minnie; “dat’s what my p’ofeshun war fore I 
cum to libwid Mis Van Siclan. But no mo’ 
acting fo’ dis chicken. I likes gittin’ up soon 
in de mornin’ a heap de best.” 

“No?” continued the tramp; “I see by 
your hand that you will live the rest of your 
life with your mistress in a great house some- 
where. You love her very much, and will 
always be true to her, I see also.” 

“ I jes’ reckon I will; an’ as fo’ lubbin her, 
if she said to me: ‘ Minnie, yo’ jes’ go an’ put 
yo’ ban’s in dat ar burnin’ stove,’ I’d jes’ do 
it widout sayin’ one word.” And Minnie 
said it so earnestly that the tramp could not 
doubt that she meant it. 

“ You are a very good girl, I should judge, 
and I presume your mistress is very fond of 
you.” 

“ Oh, Lor’ yes, she jes’ kaint git ’long 
widout me. She doan’ know how to take 
car’ of hersef nohow, always bein’ ’posed 
upon if I warnt round to watch out; and 
she lubs me jes’ de same as if I war white.” 

The tramp, amused at the ease with which 
Minnie talked, gathered as much knowledge 
from her concerning her mistress as Minnie 
gained through the science of chiromancy ; 
and it was quite beyond the hour of twilight 
when he noticed the simple meal that 


230 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


Tanika was preparing to serve to the two 
ladies of the house. 

Lingering in the grounds, he was first 
attracted by the sound of the piano as Alice 
had seated herself before it upon their 
entrance ; and, seeing the lights within, he 
drew nearer, witnessing from behind the 
half-closed shutters the cosy tite-a-tite sup- 
per before the old-fashioned fire-place, and 
the evening’s entertainment that followed. 
He left that ideal place of rest and peace a 
wiser man, resolving to rise from the posi- 
tion into which his reckless dissipation and 
numerous escapades had plunged him, for the 
tramp was a descendant of one of the proud- 
est and oldest families of England. He 
had refused a wealthy marriage, urged upon 
him by his haughty elder brother. Lord 
Arlingford, who had, for many years, 
paid his extravagant debts, but who, in his 
disappointment, had finally broken with him, 
making him an allowance, which, in the 
exigencies of the younger brother’s position, 
was wholly inadequate to his support. After 
exhausting his credit, and seeing no way of 
liquidating his indebtedness unless he mar- 
ried, there remained nothing for him to do 
but to seek employment abroad, a resort he 
had always looked upon with a shudder, and 


THE FORTUNE TELLER. 


231 

one which his false pride forbade him to 
accept in his own surroundings. He, there- 
fore, determined to seek his fortune in the 
far west of the United States, and California, 
the land of gold, whither many of his 
acquaintances had gone before him, held 
out the most alluring inducements. 

His remittances had been sent to him 
regularly, but almost at the beginning of his 
two years’ residence in the United States 
his extravagant habits had forced him to 
hypothecate his expectations at a large dis- 
count, and he had at last found himself both 
penniless and friendless. It was then that 
he began to know the world as it was, and in 
return for its unconcealed selfishness, be- 
stowed upon it his merited contempt. 

He had sought occupation everywhere, 
but his lack of experience was too manifest 
for the practical business man of America, 
so, at last, he had been forced to accept a 
menial situation on a dredging-boat to keep 
himself from starvation. There, begrimed 
with coal and dirt, he had worked for weeks, 
when he left his occupation in disgust to 
drink and carouse until the wages he had 
earned had been entirely spent. 

Attracted by the mountains in the dis- 
tance, he had aimlessly wandered away in 


232 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


their direction, seeking employment and 
asking food from door to door, whenever he 
had no means to pay for it, and sleeping 
wherever night overtook him. Hungry 
and fatigued, yet with a feeling of defiance 
at his misfortunes, he had approached the 
isolated cottage upon whose wide veranda 
sat Vera and Alice, partly screened by the 
bank of climbing roses. He had seen them 
too late to retreat, so he boldly ventured to 
interrupt their conversation, with the result 
related. 


CHAPTER IV. 


“ THE MILLS OF THE GODS.’' 

“Your sister interests me very much, Doc- 
tor. May I ask how long she has been a 
widow ? ” 

“ Nearly eight years,” replied Dr. Howard 
Donaldson, looking steadily at Senator Snow- 
den, as he answered the question. 

“ She has a sad, sweet face.” 

“ She has, indeed. Senator; she has gone 
through much suffering, but we never speak 
of the painful past.” 

“ Pardon me,” said the Senator; “ I did 
not mean to be curious. I merely felt a 
strong desire to become better acquainted, 
and would esteem it a great favor could you 
gain for me her permission to call.” 

“ My sister is not a society woman. She 
passes much of her time among the poor, 
and is usually much fatigued when evening 
comes,” said Howard, evasively. 

“ I have heard,” replied the Senator, “ that 
she is very charitable.” 

“Yes, she has several homes that she 
maintains entirely at her own expense; they 
are used as places of refuge for friendless 


234 WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

women who work, whenever they can, and 
pay for their living. Some of them earn 
good wages and are happy. But I am telling 
you a secret which, I trust, you will not 
repeat.” 

“ I promise you. Doctor, it shall be consid- 
ered confidential; but pray tell me more 
of her. I must confess, I am drawn toward 
your sister as I have never before been 
drawn toward any woman, except one” — 
and the Senator sighed — “ but she’s dead 
now.” 

“Your wife?” interrogated Dr. Donald- 
son, as he commenced to write a prescrip- 
tion. 

“No, another; but it was nothing — cer- 
tainly not worth mentioning ; for the woman 
I speak of became one of the demi monde, 
I saw her many times upon the street, with 
her once-beautiful black hair bleached to a 
bright golden yellow. I learned that she 
sank very low, and finally committed suicide. 
I had no idea she would end so badly. I 
loved her at onetime almost well enough to 
marry her, but I married another.” And, for 
the moment, the Senator indulged in a 
reverie, in which he compared the virtues 
and meekness of Leone Marlowe, the help- 
less victim he had ruined, with the character 


“THE MILLS OF THE GODS.” 235 

of the wife, whom he had ill-treated and 
despised for her cold-blooded selfishness. 
That selfishness had blinded her to the 
recognition of the personified evil in him, 
which he, with the keen logical insight neces- 
sary in one of his position, was compelled to 
own to, while it had caused her to look with 
scorn upon the unfortunate Leone in her 
pitiful appeal to her, as she enthroned 
herself in a lofty pretense of virtue that 
she did not possess — for is not virtue 
directly opposed to vice, and how can it still 
claim purity when nourishing or affecting 
that which it should repel ? But with a 
shrug of the shoulder the Senator dismissed 
the unpleasant subject from his mind, and 
asked Howard instead for further informa- 
tion concerning the houses of refuge. 

“You see,” said the doctor, “ these women 
who try to reform are, as a rule, so ashamed 
of their former conduct that they would 
sooner remain in a life of sin than be ex- 
posed to the ill-disguised scorn or pity of 
the women who have never known what 
temptation is. Sister, learning so much 
of them in her charity-work, determined to 
care for and protect them from the public 
sentiment that is so cruel and pitiless toward 
its victims, by establishing homes, the loca- 


236 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


tion of which she has successfully kept secret. 
The girls thus receive the encouragement 
and respect to which their efforts in the way 
of reform entitle them, instead of the con- 
stant reminder of their past that many char- 
itably-inclined keep before them, simply 
through want of tact. Sister has estab- 
lished a number of paying industries that 
afford them good remuneration, and by 
which they support themselves honestly, 
with no hint of their former life to dis- 
courage them. In addition to this, she 
has agencies in many cities and towns, 
where she sends those to commence anew 
who desire to have their identity more com- 
pletely lost.” 

“ But doesn’t she find it difficult to re- 
strain them ? ” 

“No, she seldom loses a case and few 
backslide ; she becomes personally the friend 
of each, and they all learn to love her — so 
much so, indeed, that scarcely one has been 
found so hardened as to resist her gentle influ- 
ence. Some of them have married; others, 
through her instrumentality, have drifted 
into occupations in other towns and cities; 
and all know that whenever they are home- 
less there is no excuse for sin, as the latch- 
string is hanging out for them to enter 


“THE MILLS OF THE GODS.” 


237 


whenever they choose. In the prosecution 
of her work, sister has interested a number 
of wealthy friends who, knowing that she 
is doing a great good, contribute generously. 
But the main expense is met by herself, and 
she spends nearly all of her own income in 
the work of reform. We live comfortably 
but plainly at home, and have little time for 
social matters ; but you can come and see 
me whenever you choose in the evening, 
and, if sister is willing, we’ll try to have 
her present,” continued Howard, as he 
looked at his watch. 

“Thank you. Doctor; you may expect 
me very soon,” said the Senator, taking the 
hint. He left Howard in his office and 
passed through the anteroom, where a large 
number of patients were awaiting their 
opportunity to consult the renowned sur- 
geon. 

Dr. Donaldson stood by his desk musing 
upon the strange fatality that had brought 
Senator Snowden to him for consultation. 
They had met on several important political 
occasions, and the doctor had delivered 
some stirring speeches in opposition to the 
Senator, who had decided to cultivate Dr. 
Donaldson’s acquaintance and, if possible, 
bring him into friendly co-operation. His 


238 the woman and the world. 

illness had furnished an excuse, and during 
his call he had introduced topics which led 
to the conversation above related. He had 
seen Howard’s supposed sister whom he 
had failed to recognize in company with 
the doctor upon several occasions; and pos- 
sessed again by the same mad passion to 
which he had yielded years before in effect- 
ing the ruin of the child Leone, he had de- 
termined to win the woman for his wife, 
and thus also gain her brother’s neutrality 
in public affairs. He recognized in Howard 
a powerful influence, helpful in the cause of 
the people; while Senator Snowden had for 
years well served the corporations that had 
placed him in ofiflce, although his duties had 
never so engrossed him that he could not 
find time to pay his attentions to the fair 
sex. He had married a polished society 
woman. When she had died, he had been 
much sought after by managing mothers, 
but had never met with any one whom he 
cared to call wife again until his eyes rested 
upon the pretty brunette whom, he fancied, 
he could bend to his will without effort. 

Howard studied long over the matter 
before admitting his next patient to con- 
sultation. “ The mills of the gods grind 
slowly,” he mused, “and, my bold fellow, I 


“THE MILLS OF THE GODS.” 


239 


think you have set a trap for me, which, if 
it springs, may instead catch you. You 
want to court my sister in order to win me 
over to your side, which proves that social 
position would effect what a life-time of 
pleading would fail to accomplish. Villain 
that you are ! I could almost yield her to 
you, that you might place her in the posi- 
tion that should have been hers years ago; 
although, poor girl, it would by no means be 
an enviable one. But you shall see and 
realize what you have lost in the woman 
and child that you so basely deserted and 
threw upon the cold charity of the world.” 

As he finished his soliloquy, he summoned 
his attendant and signified that he was ready 
to receive his patients. 

“Yes, sir,” responded the man respect- 
fully, as he opened the door and ushered the 
first comer in ; and the physician soon be- 
came so absorbed in his medical work that 
Senator Snowden, for the time, quite passed 
out of his mind. 

Howard Donaldson had become a high 
authority in the leading ranks of his profes- 
sion. His fondness for experimenting and a 
thorough knowledge of histology and pa- 
thology had enabled him to make many im- 
portant discoveries in modern surgery that 


240 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


were astonishing the medical world. In his 
contact with men abroad and in their homes 
he had reached the same logical conclusion 
drawn by the senator. He had seen nature 
exhausted by immoral excesses resting on 
beds of down, often fondled and indulged 
through illness by women who would have 
spurned the victims of the sin that they thus 
condoned, though in this age of enlighten- 
ment no woman can have any excuse for mak- 
inor such distinctions. He had observed such 

o 

women inevitably becoming unhappy wives, 
miserable through having forfeited, with the 
regard of their husbands, their own self- 
respect; yet hardening their consciences by 
false claims of respectability and sitting in 
judgment on their less fortunate sisters. In 
the wretchedness of such self-blinded women, 
Howard recognized the just law — which 
they failed to see — that life’s irritating per- 
plexities are merely retributions of nature 
visited upon all who infringe upon her 
rights. According to this law must woman’s 
inhumanity to woman act and react. She 
who receives the sinner becomes, in count- 
less ways, a participant in the sin ; and the 
false judgment that leads women to dis- 
criminate in favor of polluted man and 
against womankind is deservingly rewarded 


“THE MILLS OF THE GODS.” 


241 


by receiving from the unrepentant wrong- 
doer the treatment consistent with his 
nature, unconsciously inspired by his forced 
knowledge of the world. 

To Howard, marriage — home sanctified — 
meant a world of peace and rest, a senti- 
ment stronger in him than all other emotions. 
He knew that there were times when man 
and woman alike long for such a haven, even 
though their eyes had been opened to the 
bitter truths of life; yet, he had been forced 
from his professional observation to the con- 
clusion that the education of girls solely to 
become wives and mothers, as the only ideal 
life for women, was a mistake. For many 
women, as well as men, are unfitted by 
nature for the position of parent and, as a 
result of ill-mated marriages, bring into 
the world a vicious posterity, whose inherited 
defects require constant vigilance and are 
incapable of being cured. 

Howard had stood by Leone and her 
child as a foster-brother and guardian when 
the mother needed a supporting friend, 
screening her from the world by adopting 
and owning her as his own sister, giving her 
the name of his sister Marion, whom he 
had loved and lost through death not long 
before the eventful night when he first met 


242 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


Leone. Since that night, in which he had 
witnessed her humiliation and the beginning 
of her atonement, he had watched the daily 
sacrifice of her .strength, as she spent it in 
saving the souls of many upon whose lives a 
blight had fallen as it had fallen upon her own. 

He would gladly have bestowed upon 
Leone and her little girl the lawful right to 
his name, but Leone had gently refused all 
overtures of such a nature, and had remained 
unmarried. Now that the senator had re- 
appeared and disclosed to Howard’s keen 
perceptions that there was a redeeming 
quality in his nature, he felt that he might 
be doing an act of justice to sacrifice his 
sister in order to place her in a true position 
before the world and gain for her child the 
recognition of her social rights. 

With that idea in view he had held a lone 
conversation with Leone, or Marion, as he 
called her. In spite of his resolution to 
stifle his own sincere affection for Marion 
for the sake of the possible justice that 
might come to herself and her child, he 
found it difficult to make a dispassionate 
plea for the man, whom he sincerely despised. 
He could not deny himself the solace of 
assuring his sister once more of his belief in 
her purity of heart, and his reverence for 


^‘THE MILLS OF THE GODS.” 


243 


her life of self-abnegation, which had made 
her more than worthy of the best that man 
could offer her. Yet, for the sake of the 
reparation Snowden owed to herself and 
little Mabel, Howard urged her to permit 
the senator’s coming ; and Leone, always a 
submissive and dependent being, yielded 
finally to his persuasions. 

“It would please me,” he said, “to have 
you receive him as a visitor, sister ; and won’t 
you promise me that, for the present, no 
hint of your past acquaintance with him 
shall escape you. He referred to your 
changed appearance on the streets after his 
heartless desertion of you. He thinks also 
that you are dead, and spoke of you with a 
momentary feeling of regret, although he 
did not name you. It was that alone that 
decided me to comply with his entreaty to 
be permitted to visit us.” 

And the sad-faced woman passively as- 
sented, “If you think it is best.” 

The following evening Senator Snowden 
presented himself as a guest at the beautiful 
home overlooking the sea and Golden Gate 
Park, and was received by the doctor and 
his sister. Many visits followed the first, 
and often, as Howard was called away, 
Mabel, the little niece and ward of. Dr, 


244 'THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

Donaldson, and her aunt Marion were left 
alone to entertain the senator. He gradually 
became very fond of the bright and interest- 
ing little girl who, at times, seemed quite 
as old as her auntie in the enlightenment 
of the advanced age. 


CHAPTER V. 


DIVORCE. 

The conditions that preceded the life of 
seclusion on the isolated ranch to which 
Vera had betaken herself had been brought 
about, as we have seen, through petty jealousy, 
domestic storm, and subsequent persecution, 
by Mr. Randal in his chagrin at the separa- 
tion. Music had always been a diversion of 
Vera’s and, in her husband’s neglect, she 
had sought consolation in surrounding her- 
self with a coterie of musicians who, in their 
mutual efforts, had made her Wednesday 
evenings at home one of the chief pleasures 
of her life. Jack Richardson, the star tenor 
of the little social circle, was in great demand; 
and when it was learned incidentally that his 
voice harmonized well with Vera’s sympa- 
thetic mezzo-soprano, they were frequently 
called upon to sing together. This necessi- 
tated rehearsals, and often he would call at 
the Randal home for that purpose. Many 
happy hours Vera spent in the exercise of 
her vocal gifts, which had always been so 
unappreciated by her husband that, in her 
absorption in his work, she had neglected 


246 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


its cultivation. Mr. Randal had no taste 
for music or, indeed, for social entertain- 
ment of any kind, and, in the few evenings 
when he was persuaded to be present at the 
musicales, he recognized his own deficiencies 
in coming in contact with cultured people. 
Knowing, therefore, that if he appeared at 
the social functions, he would be exposed to 
criticism, he preferred the excitement of his 
favorite pastime — the gaming-table. 

Jack Richardson was a handsome fellow 
with a pink-and-white complexion which was 
quite in keeping with his effeminate manner 
and sweet voice. Vera’s regard for him had 
scarcely a tinge of personal feeling. She 
valued him much as she did her piano — as 
merely an instrument that could be made 
to produce harmonious sounds. She had 
treated him with the same courtesy and 
gentle consideration that she manifested 
toward every one with whom she came in 
contact ; but, aside from his musical talent 
and good looks, she felt that Jack had very 
little to recommend him. 

U pon discovering thathis wife was capable 
of making a part of her life pleasant while 
enduring his neglect, Mr. Randal’s pique 
and jealousy were thoroughly aroused. 
Gambling and carousing with the boys pos- 


DIVORCE. 


247 


sessed no more attraction for him. His 
evenings were spent at home by her side, 
and, dull as they had become to her, she 
was forced to endure them. Never once did 
it occur to her that he had come for a pur- 
pose, and his unusual kindness succeeded in 
blinding her to his real object. Hence, she 
began to care less for singing, and exerted 
herself to entertain him — a duty which she 
found quite difficult, as Mr. Randal usually 
had very little to talk about. In their life 
together, save for necessary consultation in 
his practice, Vera had never seen her hus- 
band with a book in his hand and, aside 
from the daily papers, which he lightly 
scanned, and the .trite expressions he gained 
from his questionable companionship, he 
had little within himself to draw upon. 

Vera did not know that her husband was 
calline attention to her association with the 
tenor in the most scandalous manner, which 
would not have found credence but for her 
open friendliness to the singer, a fact 
that she never thought required conceal- 
ment. 

Day after day, at Mr. Randal’s instigation, 
she had been watched from within and with- 
out, but his own frequent and abrupt appear- 
ance in the house upon many surprising occa- 


248 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

sions when she thought him far away, had 
never led her to comprehend his meaning, 
least of all to think of being suspected ; 
and not until years after, when she had 
endured much persecution through him in 
her isolation, did she understand and realize 
the position before the world in which he 
had placed her ; for she was slow to com- 
prehend such perfidy. 

The tenor had called one day to run over 
a selection, just as Vera was about to drive 
out in her pony-cart. She waited to sing a 
duet with him and, at its close, offered to 
drive him down town for the purchase of 
music in which they were jointly interested. 
Leaving him at the music store, she drove 
to the house of a friend to call, returninor 
home in the best of spirits, just in time for 
dinner. It was not her custom to render an 
account of herself, and, as she entered in the 
dim twilight, she did not notice until after 
they had finished dinner that the usually 
waxen complexion of her husband, in which 
she had never seen the color of blood mount, 
was a shade lighter, when suddenly there 
burst upon her ears, like the explosion of a 
bomb, a torrent of invective from him like 
the ravings of a madman. 

‘'You don’t need to tell me where you 


DIVORCE. 


249 


have been,” he said in his jealousy and rage ; 
“I have had you followed.” 

Vera stood dumb with amazement. Her 
silence was construed as fear, which caused 
him to continue in a tirade of abuse and 
foul accusation that made her blood run 
cold. As she looked at him in speechless 
horror, his face and body seemed, as if 
through some optical illusion, to grow 
smaller and smaller, becoming scarcely the 
size of a toy doll, as he sat in the arm-chair 
in the corner of the room, hurling his insults 
at her. 

“ Am I going mad ? ” she thought, sink- 
ing into a chair, as unconsciously she put her 
hands to her head, and turned from the sight 
with a groan. The sound, as it proceeded 
from her lips, and his sneering words, “You 
are very dramatic,” were all that she ever 
remembered of the scene that followed; and 
try as hard as she would, she could never 
recall after that moment what took place 
during the evening. She must have gone to 
bed, for she awakened in the morning and 
found herself there, partly refreshed from the 
night s respite from care, by whatever means 
this was produced. 

When she began to collect her scattered 
senses, she asked herself what it was that; 


2^0 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


made her feel so oppressed. She must have 
had the nightmare. She recalled the vision 
of her husband sinking into almost nothing 
as she turned away from him; then the sound 
of the groan as it preceded the words he 
uttered, “You are very dramatic.” 

Dramatic ! Yes, how could she be other- 
wise than dramatic. Was there ever drama 
acted that could portray the intensity of her 
feelings ? Her life had been a tragedy, and 
now this new horror was added to it — to be 
linked to a man who had so suddenly dis- 
closed the diabolical part of his nature, that 
she, in her blindness, did not dream he 
possessed. Was there ever a drama written 
that could be more tragic to a nature given 
to love as hers had been ? And to realize at 
last that she was chained to such a monster. 

Vera was impulsive ; with her, to think 
was to act. She arose, quietly went about 
her duties, and vouchsafed no word to the 
man who had so horrified her. More than 
eight years she had suffered under the most 
cruel domination of Hubert’s irritable tem- 
per; she had wasted an unnatural life of 
three years with a passionless and almost 
inanimate object. 

“Fate pursues me,” she cried; “What 
shall I do ? What shall I do?” 


DIVORCE. 


251 


A parrot was hopping about restlessly in 
his cage, screeching noisily, and springing 
at the wire bars as if trying to burst through 
and escape from his confinement. Vera’s 
impulse was to free the bird and let him fly 
as nature intended. Then, as her husband 
locked the door leading from her suite of 
rooms and placed the key in his pocket,- she 
thought how similar was her fate to that of 
the bird. 

“You are not going to leave this house,” 
said Mr. Randal, as he saw her preparing 
to depart. “If you have any business to 
transact, I shall do it for you in future. I 
will show you what a husband can do and, 
if you attempt to disobey me, I will take 
you into the country, far away from every- 
body, where you won’t see anyone but me.” 

She looked at him and said, quietly but 
vvith distinctness : “ I am going down town.” 

Exasperated by her defiance, he raised his 
clenched fist and struck her twice. Each 
lime she screamed. The maid, hearing her 
mistress’s cries, knocked at the door upon 
finding it locked. Mr. Randal, thinking it 
necessary for appearance sake, unlocked 
and opened the door and, with his ac- 
customed simulated urbanity, said : “ Minnie, 
you can bring breakfast here.” 


252 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


“ Minnie, we will come down to break- 
fast,” countermanded her mistress, as she 
saw her only opportunity of escape. “ I am 
a prisoner,” she added, “ and I want you to 
help me. Mr. Randal has struck me,” she 
cried, with suppressed excitement. 

“Why, Minnie,” he said, in the softest 
voice, “she does not know what she is talk- 
ing about,” and he flung open the door, 
fearing the trouble the maid would make, 
— saying, as he did so, that her mistress was 
out of her head but would soon come to her 
senses. 

But Minnie knew too well that her mis- 
tfess had just begun to come to her senses, 
for the black maid, with her accustomed 
sagacity, had long seen that Mr. Randal 
had simply played, and only too success- 
fully, upon her mistress’s credulity. Bqt 
she had kept her own counsel, and, like a 
faithful watch-dog, was ready to spring at 
any time upon Vera’s tormentor, who had 
always hated the maid for her shrewdness 
in understanding him, and had once almost 
succeeded in getting his wife to discharge 
her. 

“What do you propose?” he asked, 
sternly, when they returned from breakfast 
and he saw by the decision expressed in her 


DIVORCE. 253 

face that she contemolated immediate 
action. 

“ I propose that we separate,” she replied, 
calmly. 

“Upon what terms?” he asked, in much 
excitement. 

“ Upon no terms whatever. We simply 
quit here and now.” 

“ I can take from you half of what you’ve 
got,” he cried, threateningly 

“Can you?” she quietly replied, remem- 
bering that he had contributed nothing. 

“You are not going to put me on and off 
like an old glove,” he sneeringly said, as he 
noted her quiet determination; “ I will have 
you published in all the papers.” 

“ I can think of nothing worse happening 
to me than has already happened,” she 
rejoined, sadly; “ I shall try to make the 
best of whatever folly you commit.” 

He had not only addressed language to 
her that she could never forget — language 
that could only fall from the lips of a 
natural blackguard — but, like a coward, he 
had struck her in her helplessness, and his 
jealousy had been caused wholly through 
his imagination and the knowledge of his 
own mental and physical deficiencies. 

Vera knew that it would require Spartan 


254 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


courage to face the world again; but she 
had fully determined that she would not 
uselessly prolong a life which she felt could 
end only disastrously. 

Seeing her unmoved by his threats, Mr. 
Randal tried his power of persuasion upon 
her, saying; “If you had only explained 
matters.” But even then Vera gave no 
reply. 

“ Explained ? ” she thought. “ Explained 
what? That I was not the wanton he had 
called me ? Explained that I had passed 
the hour in a friendly visit with a lady, after 
leaving the tenor at the store, when he said 
that he had had me watched and knew where 
I had been ? Oh, no ! Oh, no ! ” 

She failed to see the necessity for any 
explanation, she whose actions were open 
to the light of day ; and had she stooped to 
it, or to the position in which he would have 
placed her, she would have despised herself 
as well as her husband, whom she now found 
it impossible ever again to respect. Hence, 
in her quiet but determined way, she set 
about to make preparations for a separation. 

Divorce — that condition which, in her 
early life, she had looked upon with horror, 
as she remembered the ignorant village 
gossips at the sewing society, branding, as if 


DIVORCE. 


255 


with the mark of Cain, the poor woman who 
had dared to seek protection from brutality 
through the law ; the woman whom she now 
recalled as being so ladylike and superior to 
those who had vilified her. Yet divorce was 
the only escape for a woman from such a 
tormentor, and it was far preferable to a life 
of torture ; why should she suffer longer ? 

A pressing engagement had compelled 
Mr. Randal to leave the house. Upon his 
departure, Vera hastened at once to consult 
with an attorney, who advised her to send 
forthwith a formal request to her husband 
to remain away altogether and to arrange 
for a separation, which should be final. 
Through the subsequent investigations of 
her counsel she discovered that Mr. Randal 
had, for months past, been selling and trans- 
ferring all the real estate that she had pur- 
chased which stood in his name, and from 
this source of her investments had realized 
handsome profits on the sales. She dis- 
covered, also, that, instead of having a large 
joint bank-account, as she supposed, he had 
overdrawn it many thousand dollars, and left 
her, as the only responsible one, to pay the 
debt. All that remained to her was the 
realty standing on record in her own name, 
which he could not dispose of successfully 


256 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

without her signature. She knew, however, 
that this was considered “common prop- 
erty,” as it stood on record, notwithstand- 
ing the fact that it was the re-investment of 
her own private fortune. But, as she was 
constantly buying and selling, this had not 
entered much into her calculations. 

Now that the break had come. Vera's 
friends felt it their duty to enlighten her 
upon many points which she had failed to 
comprehend. While Mr. Randal had not 
entirely deceived her as to his character in 
the years that they were together, still she 
had been blind to his faults, as a true wife 
should. But upon hearing of the course 
he was pursuing, in defaming her to screen 
himself, her indignation was thoroughly 
aroused against him. 

To his gambling friends whom he more 
particularly wished to dece’.ve, he repre- 
sented that he was giving everything to 
his wife upon their separation, depending 
wholly upon his own ability to provide for 
his future wants. To her, when she had 
questioned him as to where the money had 
all gone, he vouchsafed no other reply 
than, “Well, its gone,” accompanying his 
words by an insolent shrug of the shoulders, 
I’lggestive of the query: “What are you 


DIVORCE. 


257 


going to do about it?” The latter ques- 
tion was one she, later on, answered much 
to his chagrin through the advice of her 
counsel. Her answer was to spend large 
sums of money, not only in tracing the de- 
ceptions that he had practiced upon her, 
but in compelling him to restore a portion 
of the gold which he had misappropriated 
and safely hoarded against a contingency 
such as had occurred. 

A divorce was quietly granted through 
the Commissioner of a neighboring county, 
with the privilege to the plaintiff of resum- 
ing her maiden name of Van Siclan ; and, 
through fear of exposure of his methods, Mr. 
Randal was forced at the time to secure to his 
wife all her own property by “ deed of gift ” 
for “love and affection” to make it valid — the 
deed being further ratified by a consider- 
ation granted subsequent to their divorce. 
Since no public contradiction was made of 
his statements, Mr. Randal consoled himself 
by advertising among his friends his great 
magnanimity in making those transfers, cor- 
roborated as they were, by the silent 
records which could make no statement of 
the real story. Public opinion consequently 
spoke of him as a noble fellow, and, through 
his efforts, scandalized the wife for her 


258 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


inconstancy. Nor was this all ; for, later 
on, more sympathizing observers, noticing 
the sudden absence of his wonted brilliancy 
in the court-room, and, never imagining that 
the cause lay in his own lack of ability, attrib- 
uted his newly-evidenced dullness solely to 
the check which his wife’s heartless desertion 
had given to his ambition. 

To Vera, in spite of all this, the separa- 
tion was a relief, though the feeling of some- 
thing gone from her life was, for a time, un- 
bearable. Hers was a nature to love and 
to cling to something. When Hubert had 
worn that love out by his ungovernable 
temper, she still had the tiny dog that had 
become almost human in its sympathy; but 
Tiny had died. When she had married Mr. 
Randal, she had centered her affection upon 
him, and, though unlike the love she had 
given to Hubert, it was rare in its quality of 
faithful, tender devotion. And now, as she 
was preparing to break up the home that had 
become endeared to her, she felt as if some 
hidden monster was fastening its tentacles 
around her heart, tearing it from her very 
bosom. Walking to and fro and wringing 
her hands, as she had done many times 
before when she had felt her husband’s neg- 
lect too keenly, she exclaimed: “Why am I 


DIVORCE. 


259 


weeping as if I cared for that characterless 
piece of clay ? Why do I grieve at leaving 
this miserable home, which has been a place 
only of torture to me ? ” Yet her heart was 
almost breaking in its sense of utter desola- 
tion. 

When Vera learned of Mr. Randal’s ver- 
sion of the causes of their separation, and 
that he had otherwise circulated scandal in 
regard to her, she wrote to a friend in New 
York, asking for Hubert’s address that she 
might, if occasion called for, protect herself 
against Randal’s calumnies. The letter had 
scarcely time to reach its destination, she 
thought, before an answer arrived by wire 
from Hubert, who had been immediately in- 
formed of her inquiry. It read: 

“If you are in trouble, rely upon me for 
anything in my power. 

Hubert.” 

Hubert’s hasty marriage had resulted 
disastrously within a few months after it 
had been consummated, and, in the incom- 
patibility of the two temperaments, a separ- 
ation and divorce had been quickly, though 
quietly, effected. For several years he had 
lived alone, wandering about from place to 
place, a restless, perturbed spirit, unfit to 


26 o 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD, 


occupy any position of trust or responsibil- 
ity in his grief over the irreparable loss cf 
his only real love. At last, meeting with a 
winsome little woman to whom he confided 
the great sorrow of his life, he was won by 
her sympathy to return the love he felt that 
she had given him, and they were married. 
He had told her of the affection for his first 
wife that had clung to him in spite of all, 
but that he loved her now more as a child 
than as a wife, and that he would never be 
able to overcome the feeling. In speaking 
of Vera’s character, he had said: “ I know 
of no way to describe her, except that she is 
quite unconventional and what you would 
expect most any woman to do, she would 
not do. In the infinite complexity of her 
nature something original and surprising, 
of which one could never tire, was continu- 
ally disclosing itself. She said little, but 
talked well, because she was always earnest 
and truthful. When she laughed you 
laughed with her, and when she cried it was 
difficult for one to restrain one’s emotion.” 

In the first year of their marriage the new 
wife had given birth to a baby boy. Having 
the mistake he had made in his life with Vera 
ever in his memory, his manner toward his 
second love was more temperate and they 


DIVORCE. 


261 

were happy. When the message was sent to 
California, it was with the full consent and 
knowledge of the little wife and mother, 
who had entertained a feeling of sympathy 
and affection for her predecessor, and who 
now joined her husband in extending to his 
former wife any assistance that might be 
required. 

But Vera could not realize how secure 
she was against Hubert’s importunities and 
feared to exercise the privilege so graciously 
bestowed ; hence she remained utterly alone, 
with no one to turn to. Hubert, little dream- 
ing of her great trouble, waited to hear from 
her. 

Weeks passed into months. Frenzied 
with grief from the false reports her hus- 
band had circulated, restless and ill, Vera, 
to divert her mind, had plunged into specu- 
lation in real estate. Some of the property 
that had been set aside for her had been 
heavily encumbered ; to relieve herself from 
the burden, her inherited instinct of business 
directed her so well in her investments 
that in less than a year, through the increase 
of values, she not only paid her debts, but 
had a bank-account of many thousands of 
dollars to her credit. This fact, together 
with the rapid disappearance of the fortune 


262 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


which had been left in Mr. RandaFs hands, 
served to further irritate the deserted hus- 
band who, by some means, kept himself 
informed of all his late wife’s affairs. 

In her direct contact with the world, 
Vera began to understand what Hubert 
meant when he had told her that she would 
be preyed upon for her stupid credulity. 
From her childhood’s earliest days she had 
lived a dreamy life of seclusion, knowing little 
of, and caring less for, the real world beyond 
the congenial circle in which she moved. 
Had she found pleasure in wide companion- 
ships, she would probably have developed as 
keen perceptions as did the average of hu- 
manity ; but the diversity of thought within 
herself, and the gratification of her uncon- 
querable desire for advancement, had occu- 
pied her life to the exclusion of all else, save 
her love for those whose welfare was to her a 
source of solicitude. Hence, she had been 
slow to develop and comprehend worldly 
ideas that were simple enough to the gener- 
ality of people. 

Although attended with success, business 
contact with the world was distasteful to 
her, and she found herself with difficulty, on 
many occasions, restraining her tears until 
she could reach seclusion where she could. 


DIVORCE. 


263 


unobserved, give vent to them. The man- 
ner in which men looked on business deal- 
ings; their cruel suspicions of each other, 
while at the same time ready to take all 
possible advantage of extortion that the 
situation would afford, never accrediting one 
with truth, to her, who felt that her word 
was as good as her bond, was constantly 
exciting her sensitive nature, causing inces- 
sant disgust and aversion. 

In that frame of mind she had soueht 
solitude and seclusion from the world in the 
ranch life, to which our readers have been 
introduced, in company with her old friend 
Alice. It was her oriorinal intention to seek 

O 

retirement in a convent, but her friends had 
dissuaded her from that step ; and from her 
own lack of faith in the tenets of that re- 
lieion, she had chosen the more natural life 
of ranching. This, however, under the cir- 
cumstances, proved to be wholly impractic- 
able, so acting upon the advice of her good 
friend, she had finally exchanged her country 
home for a large piece of unimproved city 
property, which, being heavily encumbered, 
required with her other speculations quite 
all her income to pay the interest. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE SHIPWRECK. 

W HEN the tramp reluctantly left the 
grounds, where he had been so surprisingly 
entertained, he determined to find employ- 
ment upon some neighboring ranch and, as 
it was the season for grape-picking, he suc- 
ceeded in his efforts, proving himself such 
an efficient worker that later on he was 
given the position of foreman and remained 
for some time in the neighborhood. 

Resting one Sunday morning beneath the 
shade of a live oak tree leisurely scanning 
the papers, he read of the embarking of Lord 
and Lady Arlingford with their children, 
governess, nurses, maids, and his lordship’s 
valet and secretary, for a tour of the world. 

“ So, my worthy brother,” he mused, “ you 
were in San Francisco ! I wonder if you 
took any pains to look me up during your 
sight-seeing? I wish I had known of your 
coming, dem it ; I might have struck him 
for a few hundreds. It’s hard lines that we, 
of the same blood, should be so unequally 
provided for* in this world’s goods. Con- 
found it all ; its a blasted shame, but it can’t 


THE SHIPWRECK. 


265 


be changed.” And the tramp adhered to 
his veneration for old traditions in that re- 
spect, in spite of his being the sufferer. 

Nearly a hundred dollars were owing him 
for labor. The news of his brother had made 
him restless and he had decided to notify 
his employer that he would resign his posi- 
tion when the month had expired. He had 
only just returned to San Francisco when 
he read of the terrible shipwreck that had 
taken place at sea, in which nearly all on 
board the ill-fated steamer had gone down. 
It was the ship in which Lord and Lady 
Arlingford with their family and retinue of 
servants had taken passage, as they pro- 
ceeded on their tour of the world; among 
the list of survivors who had returned to 
San Francisco to tell the story, the palmister 
read of the arrival of his brother’s valet — 
the only one who had been saved out of 
that large household. The paper stated 
that the brother and heir to his lordship’s 
titles and estates was in California, and 
that the valet was remaining in the hope of 
hearing from him. 

“ Poor old boy ! ” said the palmister, as he 
thought of his brother in his watery grave; 
“ I am sorry I ever vexed you; but, dem it, 
how was a fellow to get on in my set with- 


266 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


out money ? ” A suspicion of .moisture came 
to his eyes as he recalled the past with 
regret, and, although his brother’s death had 
made him heir to his vast possessions, he 
thought only of the circumstance which had 
brought the family to an untimely end. 

The valet was easily found, and eagerly 
greeted the new earl as “ his lordship.” 
The palmister had taken pains to appear 
before him “ in good form,” and, as he ac- 
knowledged the title and stepped into his 
new position with a lordly air of indifference, 
he drew from the valet the narration of the 
exciting scene of the shipwreck. His 
brother had stood upon the deck with his 
family clinging to him in horror of the cer- 
tain death that stared them in the face, and 
not until his lordship had given Martin a 
stern command to leave the ship and take 
his chances of life floating upon the sea 
had the valet left his master’s side. “Tell 
my brother, his lordship that will be, that I 
regret our parting, and to forgive my harsh- 
ness to him, if he can. I know he will 
carry the title with pride, and be worthy of 
our name. If you live to see him, give him 
a brother’s love, and God bless him and you 
too, Martin, and preserve you,” he had said 
between the wails that went up to heaven 


THE SHIPWRECK. 


267 


from the passengers of the ill-fated boat. 
The valet had bidden them farewell and 
plunged into the' sea when the hurricane 
had reached its height. Clinging to the 
floating timbers, as they carried him some- 
times high upon the waves above the ship 
and down again, he saw its hold filling with 
water, and scarcely escaped from being 
ckawn down by the terrible suction as the 
boat sank and disappeared from view, carry- 
ing with it all on board. 

During the latter part of his two years’ 
residence in California, his lordship had 
become quite charmed with the country, 
especially where, upon his visit to the inter- 
ior, he had in one instance been so hospit- 
ably treated as “a tramp,” and through the 
influence of which he had been enabled to 
prove himself once more worthy of his own 
self-respect. He fain would have lingered 
— he hardly knew why — in the delightful 
atmosphere which had restored him to a pro- 
per station in life. But his succession to 
the title and estates of his late brother 
necessitated his lordship’s immediate return 
to London, and he departed at once, ex- 
periencing an unaccountable regret, which 
he could only attribute to the seductive 
influences of the “glorious climate.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


DARK DAYS. 

Acting on her friend's advice, Vera had 
returned to the city to live. The panic of 
’93 had rendered it almost impossible to 
transact business with any degree of satisfac- 
tion, and, in her speculations and the combi- 
nation of unfortunate circumstances, she 
found herself a prey to false friends and 
unscrupulous people who, like vultures, 
hover around the afflicted, watching for a 
vulnerable point to fasten upon. As the 
times began to affect every one alike, she 
saw that, in her dealings with people, very 
few looked upon her side in any issue with 
the same fairness and consideration with 
which she measured theirs against her own. 
In the mad scramble for existence and posi- 
tion, each one seemed to be furthering his 
own interest solely, regardless of justice, 
and, often mistaking her liberality for in- 
experience, attempted to impose upon her. 
She became more than ever disgusted with 
business, and wished that she were able to 
retire from the world, from which she had 
always seemed to live apart, and where she 


DARK DAYS. 


269 


felt hopelessly unfit to maintain the struggle, 
since Mr. Randal had made its current 
adverse to her. 

She had dreamed of an ideal life — true, 
ennobling and grand. The reverse had 
taken its place, and she grew morbid under 
the influence of the conditions that now 
environed her. From thinking everything 
to be good, her loathing of those whom she 
found to be false frequently betrayed itself, 
and created for her enemies who usually 
anticipated her discovery of their cunning 
and treachery by the tell-tale expressions of 
her face. To a mind as active as hers, it 
was impossible to endure with patience ; 
though in her helplessness she suffered 
silently, bowing herself to the dust in humili- 
ation over her errors, yet, brave as a Spartan 
to face the foe. In the accumulation of 
wrongs unredressed, she gathered from 
the depths of her sorrow force upon force, 
while drawing more and more within herself, 
as she realized that the world was far differ- 
ent from her high ideals, and so occupied her 
time in study and writing. 

Property, by this time, had not only 
depreciated in value, but even at any price 
there was absolutely no demand for it. 
The bank which held her surplus funds 


2/0 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


had failed, and money could be had only at 
usurious rates. Except for the property she 
owned, she found herself penniless, or prop- 
erty poor, and, like others, suffered under 
the calamity of the great financial crisis. 
At first she blamed only her own misman- 
agement, and accused herself of having 
much conceit in her own ability; but as time 
passed and she took a retrospective glance, 
wherein she saw friends and acquaintances 
who had formerly been in affluent circum- 
stances going down in the crash, men who 
had long been looked upon as able finan- 
ciers, whose positions had been considered 
unassailable, she concluded that the fault 
was as much in the change of times as in 
herself. Hence, she set about to study the 
world-situation of the day, learning much 
from the newspapers, taking great pains to 
read the issues of the time and both sides of 
the current political controversies. In com- 
paring and weighing each proposition, as 
stated by the respective parties, she found 
that it required very little penetration to 
understand that gold was monarch, and that 
few arguments prevailed without betraying 
the marks and emphasis of its influence. 

She found that the pay of the laboring- 
man, which at the beginning of the era of 


DARK DAYS. 


271 


protection had been generously proportioned 
to the capitalists’ returns, had been gradually 
lowered through the avarice of monopolies, 
trusts, and combines in pursuit of their 
grasping policy. Organized bodies of cap- 
italists had imported gangs of foreigners 
who would work for far less than the wages 
demanded by the American laborer, and 
were further recommended to the monop- 
olists’ favor by the ease with which they 
could be brought to vote at the polls for 
measures that would advance the ends of 
the money-power. Capital, not content 
with a daily average product of ten dollars 
and a half from every laborer, set against 
the pitiful average return of one dollar and 
fifteen cents to each workingman, reached 
out after the further benefit of legislation, 
through its ignorant voters; therefore, as a 
result of this manipulation of the polls, cap- 
italists found the way made clear for com- 
binations to ruin individual enterprise and 
keep up the prices of their own special pro- 
ducts at the expense of the laborer, who could 
thus be thrown into enforced idleness at the 
will of the controlling combines. Through 
such a process, labor, enslaved to capital, 
gradually became more and more degraded; 
yet monopolies, trusts and combines seemed 


272 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


to thrive equally as well under the banner 
of free trade as under that of protection. 

Whenever a measure of international free 
trade was adopted, experience has taught 
that the ultimate results to the poor have 
been even more disastrous than those of the 
protection era; for while under free trade 
the volume of business transacted was far in 
excess of its amounts during any era of pro- 
tection, yet the actual benefits from it to our 
country were so small that it had always 
resulted in financial distress, not only cheap- 
ening product and labor alike, but ultimately 
enforcing idleness as well, in its discourage- 
ment of home enterprise. 

In studying the economical question, Vera 
concluded that the greatest evil to the 
country sprang not from protection itself, 
which was intended to benefit all alike, but 
from the opportunities afforded by it for the 
concentration of the money-power of mon- 
opoly, which eventually made it possible 
for capital to make its dealings lawful 
through unlawful measures. 

From this Aladdin’s lamp of protection, 
with all its magic promise of widespread 
prosperity, had sprung the ill-omened genii — 
monopolies, trusts and combines — which 
worked as fatal ill as did the spirit of free 


DARK DAYS. 


273 


trade. To Vera’s sharpened perceptions, 
the system appeared as a fungus growth 
upon the nation and, if countenanced at all, 
should be tolerated only upon the imposi- 
tion of a heavy license by the government, 
such as is imposed on any gambling game 
which preys upon the weakness and ignor- 
ance of its victims. An)/ condition existing 
at the expense of the individual rights of 
enterprise, of the laborer, or of commerce 
at large is detrimental to the masses and 
directly opposed to the law of God and the 
Constitution of the United States; there- 
fore, combines, trusts and monopolies should 
be pronounced unlawful, and measures, suffi- 
ciently strong to sweep them from the 
country, should at once be enacted and 
enforced in the interest of the multitude. 
Under such vigorous treatment the evil 
would soon be rooted out completely, in- 
stead of being allowed to reach the corrupt 
growth — maturity — which must be the in- 
evitable result of unchecked concentration 
of wealth. 

In the land of America, “the broad land 
of freedom,” the very thought of liberty had 
become a satire, for gold ruled. Never 
before in the history of the country had 
such rampant corruption been known. 


274 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


Money was the dictator controlling politics, 
Whomsoever the monopolies chose to repre- 
sent their interests was placed in office, and 
if, perchance, a man was actually elected 
by the people, independent of the combines, 
that man was immediately made the mark 
for criticism, and even for ridicule, by the 
public opinion which the combines created. 
His honest acts were either perverted, or 
misrepresented, or made to seem so odious 
to the people, whose interests he was faith- 
fully serving, that his influence against the 
enactment of laws detrimental to the coun- 
try ^yas entirely nullified. 

The nation was being brought to the 
condition of a festering sore, ready to break 
at any moment from the force of its own 
corruption. Bosses, reeking with sin and 
loaded with spoils from the barter of our 
boasted liberty, were continually bobbing 
up at the first bugle-call of a coming cam- 
paign, ready again, as before, to sacrifice 
the people upon the altar of their lust for 
gold by placing in important offices and 
subordinate positions, to gather In the spoils, 
politicians and sons of politicians whose 
incompetency, in many instances, was written 
in every line of their faces, and whose fic- 
titious importance and only claim to office 


DARK DAYS. 


275 


lay in their ability to manipulate the political 
machine. For the support of such repre- 
sentatives the people paid taxes. 

Meanwhile the exciting election of ’94 
had taken place. Though nearly the whole 
country had gone republican, a Democratic 
governor had been the choice of the people 
in California, a result attributable only to 
his strong anti-monopolistic and reform 
views. A Populist mayor in San Francisco, 
whose principles were strongly antagonistic 
to monopoly, had been eleoted for daring 
to voice the sentiments of a people, cowed 
and dispirited on the one hand by the 
crushing effect of monopoly, and on the 
other by the blind indifference of a class of 
citizens too wholly absorbed in pleasure to 
disturb themselves by any thought of the 
future. The trend of public opinion was 
still further evinced when the representative 
senator in Congress scored another* success 
in his re-election as a reward for his efficient 
services at the Capitol. 

Among others, Mr. Randal, who was the 
tool of a corporation, and who had once been 
forced to relinquish an office upon the dis- 
covery of its having been fraudulently taken, 
was elected by a large majority and, manifest- 
ly, by an equally large amount of money, to a 


276 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


high legislative position. The office had 
been gained through the influence of that 
corporation, which had begun to realize 
that the pressure of the opposing element 
meant a rallying of all their own forces 
to make sure of future success. 

Knowing not only his inability to fill such 
an important position, but also the insta- 
bility of his character, Vera looked upon 
his election to office as a farce, and an insult 
to the intelligence of ihe people. Hitherto 
she had felt that politics was a subject re- 
quiring too much study for her to attempt 
to thoroughly understand them, and she was 
not willing to put in the years she knew it 
required to comprehend their intricacies, par- 
ticularly as women were not allowed to have 
any voice in the matter; yet here was an 
election, presumably in the interests of the 
people, which she knew was not only a foul 
wrong, ’ but a wrong also in the person 
of him returned, who was merely a creature 
of monopoly, and a man wholly incompetent 
to fill any position of responsibility or trust. 

Senator Snowden, whom she now knew to 
have been the betrayer of the helpless 
Leone, had long held a seat in Congress, 
and, in the insolence of his office, backed by 
the money-power that had placed him there, 


DARK DAYS. 


277 

he had carried through their schemes with 
high-handed treason to the people whom he 
was supposed to serve. And yet she, who 
paid heavy taxes, must aid in the support of 
such impositions, and submit in silence. 

Looking back to the time when she had 
heard Edmund Dayton instruct Hubert in 
the management of the nomination of his 
candidate, throwing out money like water to 
insure what would return to him a thousand 
fold, she began to see that, from ocean to 
ocean, across the wide and magnificent land 
of freedom, the country had become a mass 
of corruption, verging upon the same state 
of affairs that existed during the reign of 
Nero, prior to the destruction of Rome. 
No wonder, she thought, that the glorious 
ship of state was fast drifting upon the rocks, 
perhaps to be split from stem to stern in the 
surging billows that were attacking it from 
every side; for, in the thirty years of modern- 
ised facilities for concentration of money, 
the country had reached a condition of such 
peril as a thousand years of the old-time ways 
could hardly parallel — the only difference 
being in the lack of the patient submission 
of our people, which characterized the gen- 
erations of the less enlightened age in their 
more gradual descent. 


278 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


Now the country was being stirred to its 
core through the dissatisfaction of the people 
with the conditions imposed upon them by 
the money-power. From dissatisfaction the 
public had inevitably advanced to loss of 
confidence in the direction of government 
affairs, and to a sense of insufficient govern- 
mental protection. Falling victims to their 
own ignorance of organization and manage- 
ment, the body of the people readily divided 
into factions, which the money-power took 
pains to keep in a state of petty jealousies 
and prejudices, knowing, in that element of 
opposition to each other, that they would 
overlook the one important fact that, as 
united Americans only, could they ever 
hope for success, while, on the other hand, 
the money-power had the wisdom to com- 
bine in the common cause, knowing that 
only in union lay their strength, as well as 
safety from the indignant and outraged 
masses. 

In reading the leading subjects of the day, 
Vera discovered that many of the same 
questions were up for discussion that had 
agitated the country prior to the Civil War. 
She recalled the language of President 
Lincoln in his letter to a farmer friend in 
the Illinois town where she was born : “ I 


dark days. 


279 


see in the near future/' said Mr. Lincoln, 
“ a crisis approaching that unnerves me and 
causes me to tremble for the safety of my 
country. As a result of the war, corpora- 
tions have been enthroned, and an era of 
corruption in high places will follow, and 
the money-power of the country will en- 
deavor to prolong its reign by working upon 
the prejudices of the people until all wealth 
is aggregated in a few hands, and the re- 
public is destroyed. I feel at this moment 
more anxiety for the safety of my country 
than ever before, even in the midst of war.” 

As the words of the martyred president 
were brought so forcibly to her mind, she 
thought that if he had but lived, or if the 
government were controlled by the same 
wisdom and discretion that he embodied, 
the country would not to-day be in such 
a state of contention. As she pondered 
the condition of affairs — the magnitude 
of the project for plundering the people 
through partial legislation and money-con- 
trolling politics — the situation appeared to 
her overwhelmingly appalling. It seemed 
as if the weight of the nation’s woes had set- 
tled upon her shoulders as heavily as it did 
upon those who held the helm of state in 
their hands, and much more heavily than 


280 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


upon many of its paid officers who occu- 
pied seats at the expense of the govern- 
ment, while serving only their own sordid 
interests. Fully awakened to the con- 
sciousness of the individual responsibili- 
ties of all citizens, she wondered why every 
American voter was not equally aroused to 
the realization of the duties and the con- 
sequent exigencies of the position. 

It was one of the gloomiest days of the 
winter. There had been many such, and 
Vera had passed them in reading and medi- 
tation, relieved only by the continual out- 
pouring of her thoughts in writing. 

The rain was falling steadily; the dark- 
ened sky cast a deep shadow about the room 
in which she sat by the fire-place, thinking 
intently of the common weal. Wearied at 
last, she was lulled to sleep by the monot- 
onous patter of the rain as it beat against 
the window. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE DANGER SIGNAL. 

AsVera slept, years passed. “Grim-visaged 
War” had come upon the country and laid 
waste our broad lands. At the outset, it 
had been a war of capital and labor, but 
sinister forces, taking advantage of the strife 
in which brother fought against brother, had 
come to the front and, through their min- 
ions — the foreign subjects of our own con- 
tinent — were completing the nation’s ruin. 

Foreign elements had long ruled through 
political and money power, to the gradual 
exclusion of Americans from office. The 
different factions among the masses had 
been kept in petty contentions with each 
other by the cunning of the money power, 
until they had become so weakened at the 
polls that the contest had lain virtually 
between the old, and the corrupt, parties. 
Meanwhile, the people had fallen back to 
grovel in poverty and oppression-— more 
dangerous to that ruling power in their 
defeat than they could have been in their 
triumph; for, goaded on as they were by the 
starvation that seemed inevitable, and by 


282 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


the unheeded cry against the outrage upon 
liberty, they had come to realize that force 
must be met with force, in order to ac- 
complish any change. 

The situation had become insupportable, 
as it left our people in the doubly-wretched 
plight of despising the laws, made by the 
law-makers who were elected through the 
influence of the money-vote, and of being 
despised by other nations. The latter had 
tauntingly referred to our boasted liberty 
and to our submission to the yoke in words 
that had quickened the blood of all true 
patriots, and inspired them with a feeling of 
resentment which, through misled but hon- 
est enthusiasm, had made them dangerous 
alike to themselves and to the country. 

Too late had the people seen their mis- 
take in not concentrating their strength at 
the polls, but now they had risen against 
oppression, and, as united Americans, had 
declared war. It was a futile effort in behalf 
of a hopeless cause, for no sooner had the 
tardily-awakened people made their declara- 
tion than they found that the country was 
forever lost, having been delivered to the 
enemy by the stratagem of traitors, and by 
the treachery of foreign mercenaries in our 


THE DANGER SIGNAL. 283 

land, to whom enormous shares of booty 
had been promised. 

As a result of the sanguinary contest 
that had occurred through the despairing 
frenzy of a wronged and infuriated populace, 
hospitals were crowded, and the air was 
filled with the groans of dying soldiers; 
armies of brave men had already fallen in 
the struggle. Homes of the loyal had been 
confiscated or devastated, and the foreign 
element, which had for a long time ruled 
only in secret, had full possession of the 
land. 

According to a preconcerted plan, the 
principal cities of America had been simul- 
taneously bombarded, and San Francisco 
had surrendered with the rest. The Re- 
public, once so gloriously and triumphantly 
prosperous, had crumbled at the first rude 
touch of war into the lifeless dust that had 
long been hidden under its deceptively-fair 
exterior. And from the ruins of the State, 
Monarchy raised her head, and cries of 
“ Long live the King” were heard through- 
out the land. The earth trembled with the 
roar of artillery. The air vias dark with 
smoke, and filled with fiying missiles. In 
the midst of the turmoil, nature added her 


284 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


protest against the desecration of the peo- 
ple’s rights. 

From the desolated hills of San Francisco, 
the distant mountain was seen to quake, and 
became rent in two. From its base there 
arose a woman’s figure — grim, gaunt, and ^ 
ghastly — her head bowed down, her bent 
form clad in garments of blackest hue. 
Darkness had fallen like a pall never again 
to be lifted ; and as the figure stalked 
forth, with the clanking of chains which 
dragged from wrists and ankles, she gazed 
in sorrow at the ruin. Then lurid flashes 
of lightning, followed by loud peals of 
thunder, revealed in that figure what was 
once the fair Goddess of Liberty, descended 
from her lofty realm and, as a woman, equal 
now in rights with all, for all were enslaved 
alike. 

The oppression at length grew too great 
and, with a struggle, Vera threw off the 
nightmare, only to find that darkness had 
closed in around her. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE NEW BEGINNING. 

The visits of Senator Snowden at the 
Donaldson home brought about an event- 
ful understanding and reconciliation, of 
which the world was shortly apprised through 
the announcement of his approaching mar- 
riage to the pretty widowed sister of the 
eminent surgeon, Dr. Howard Donaldson. 
As Vera’s eyes rested upon the invitation 
which was sent to her, to witness the cere- 
mony, and thinking of the many snares 
and pitfalls into which the poor child had 
fallen in her helplessness, she breathed a 
prayer for Leone’s future, beginning to 
realize that there were worse conditions in 
life than those surrounding herself. 

She had long been in the habit of writing 
her thoughts, which at times were strong 
•and fearless. Again, when her brain would 
be worn out with the intensity of them, and 
her weariness would appear in her efforts, 
she would become disgusted and, gathering 
up the results, would consign them to the 
flames. But no sooner were they in ashes 
than the uncontrollable desire to write would 


286 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


return, for she had unconsciously, on many 
occasions, woven her fancies into a story. 

Time dragged on in that monopoly-bound 
State. The financial situation did not im- 
prove ; there was no sale of property, except 
at ruinous prices. Glancing over the 
pages she had re-written, reflecting for a 
moment upon the possibility of their hav- 
ing a commercial value, Vera finally decided 
to compile them and send them at a venture 
to a publisher. She, who had always been 
so diffident about expressing herself, had 
hardly dreamed, until then, that she pos- 
sessed any literary ability ; and as a month 
had passed and she had heard nothing of 
her work, she felt humiliated to think that 
she had submitted her crude efforts to any 
one for consideration, in her over-estimate 
of their value through the force of her ne- 
cessities. Yet her active mind was ever 
studying out the means to surmount her 
present difficulties. 

She longed again for the freedom of the • 
country, yet the impracticability of ranching 
had demonstrated itself. So her thouo-hts 
once more reverted to the peace and quiet 
of convent life, as she had made acquain- 
tance with it while passing a few restful 
weeks among the sisters in her sojourn in 


THE NEW BEGINNING. 


287 


Colorado, and she determined to arrange 
her business affairs and retire from the 
world, this time within convent walls. 


CHAPTER X. 


“as we forgive.” 

In answer to Vera’s ring the convent 
door was opened by a sister, whose face 
at once appeared familiar, yet strange. It 
was wan and sad-looking, with eyes like the 
picture of the Mater Doloroso, but the habit 
worn, together with the disfiguring ravages 
of smallpox, so effectually concealed her 
identity that Vera failed to recognize in the 
stooping figure of the woman who preceded 
her into the large reception-room the once- 
beautiful countenance and proud carriage of 
Amy Robertson. The nun walked feebly 
before her, holding her side to ease herself 
from the racking cough, which the fresh air 
from the open door seemed to have aggra- 
vated. 

As she turned to offer the visitor a seat, 
the hectic flush that came to her pale face 
made it appear still more as if it belonged 
to one whom Vera had known. 

“Sister,” she said, “your face is very 
familiar to me, and yet I cannot place you.” 

“ I am Sister Agnes Gerard. Perhaps we 
have met. It seems to me,” she replied, 


‘AS WE FORGIVE.’ 


289 


when she was able to subdue her coughing, 
“as if I had known you in years past, yet 
there is something in your expression that 
contradicts the feeling. My people live in 
Chicago. My name, before I took the veil, 
was Amy Robertson.” 

“Amy !” exclaimed Vera. And the pain 
of discovery at seeing the beautiful girl so 
changed was written too plainly upon her 
face to admit any doubt of its meaning. 
“Don’t you remember me?” she continued, 
as she clasped Amy’s hands. “ I am Vera 
Dayton.” 

“Vera!” said Amy, equally surprised, re- 
turning her greeting with warmth. 

“ Alas!” said Vera, sadly, “we must both 
be changed, since neither could recognize the 
other. Yet how could we expect it to 
be otherwise, passing through years of 
sorrow which would set its mark upon any 
face.” And, as Vera remembered the treach- 
ery of her sister-in-law toward Amy, she 
hastily added: “but I am not Vera Dayton 
now, you must know, of course; I have 
passed through much unhappiness, as you 
have, Amy, since we first met on that 
Thanksgiving Day, now more than sixteen 
years ago.” 

Sister Agnes, seeing the condition of 


290 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


Vera’s raincl from her tell-tale face, quickly 
led her from the subject by saying: “ Oh, 
well, my friend, it is passed and gone with 
me forever, and I have found consolation 
in work for and faith in the wisdom of God, 
who, I am sure, orders all for a purpose, 
and does not intend that we should put our 
hope in the things of earth. So I am con- 
tent to do and wait until He calls me ; and 
you must try, dear, for your own sake,” she 
continued, “ not to let your sorrows so 
completely envelop you as they evidently 
have.” She v/as about to say more, but 
the racking cough came on again, and Vera, 
with tears of sympathy for her friend, re- 
plied: “ I have come here for that very 
reason, Amy, to see if I cannot again find 
admission to your home of peace and, per- 
haps, absorb some of the good which I know 
to exist within these walls. My object was 
to talk with the mother superior about the 
matter, and now that I have met you, you 
must speak a good word for me, as I am 
more eager than ever to come.” 

“ I should be happy, dear, to have you 
with us,” the sister replied; “rest assured 
. I shall do all in my power.” And when the 
mother superior appeared, after an inter- 
view with Amy, it was evident from the 


“AS WE FORGIVE.’ 


291 


facility with which she permitted arrange- 
ments to be made that Amy had complied 
with her friend’s request. 

A week later found Mrs. Van Siclan com- 
fortably installed in the best rooms of the 
humble quarters. Companionship estab- 
lished a strong attachment between the two 
friends, and, from Amy’s entire submission 
to the will of God, evinced in different 
ways, Vera learned many a lesson of 
humility. “We try to live with the thought 
only of doing for His sake,” Amy had said, 
as her friend protested against her perform- 
ing the most menial services for her. 

“ My dear, I learned of such humility from 
seeing it practised during my residence in 
the Colorado convent, and I have tried 
many a time to emulate it ; but while it 
may do for one whose life is consecrated to 
the work, human nature and the pressure of 
humanity are too strong against a successful 
operation of such virtues in the world. It 
is,” said Vera, with a momentary bitterness, 
“like casting pearls before swine.” 

Many times, when Sister Agnes had a few 
moments to spare, she would devote them 
in the most unselfish manner to her friend, 
until Vera’s natural happy disposition re- 
asserted itself and once more brightened 


292 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


her expressive face. Often she had tried to 
say the simple prayer learned in her child- 
hood : “Our Father, Who art in Heaven, 
hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom 
come. Thy will be done, on earth — as it is 
in Heaven. Forgive us our sins, as we for- 
give those who sin against us ” — she paused — 
“ as we forgive—' she repeated, thoughtfully ; 

as we forgive." She studied the phrase, 
saying it again and again, and, with a sigh, 
continued; “Ah, well! How do I forgive 
my enemies ? I have cursed and execrated 
them — even my own father, for his heartless 
neglect of me in my childhood; I have 
longed for vengeance ; aid yet, I now say 
to God, “ forgive us our sins as we forgive 
those who sin against us.” 

The simple prayer had set her mind at 
work, and by it and Amy’s influence, peace 
and quiet had come to her through her 
determination to cultivate it, and only at 
long intervals came a shadow of her old 
misanthropy. The world opened before 
her in a new light. The study of literature 
and music, with which she occupied her 
time in her new surroundings, brought new 
ideas, and out of the chaos came fresh and 
systematic plans for the future. 

Her one sorrow was in witnessing the 


WE FORGIVE.” 


293 


daily decline of her old friend, Sister Agnes, 
whose life, so beautiful and sublime in its 
resignation to an unnatural termination, 
often brought tears to Vera’s eyes, as she 
thought of what might have been. “ Ah, 
well,” she said, with a sigh ; “ God wants 
an angel, and He has chosen her. Oh, that 
I could have her faith ! Poor Amy ! I 
do not believe she would have had that 
heavenly trust, if she did but dream of one- 
half the treachery that made her its victim. 
But why do I allow my thought to dwell 
upon the subject ? She is content, and, I 
can truly say, I am also.” 

A letter was received from the publishing 
house in New York, to which Vera had 
sent her writings before entering the con- 
vent. It reviewed the work favorably, 
briefly stated terms of publication, and 
offered to place it on the market for her, 
adding that she must expect to be severely 
criticised at first, as she had portrayed the 
life of the ruling classes in vivid detail. The 
letter was signed by the manager. 

With her inherited instincts for venturing 
thus encouraged, Vera decided to accept 
the proposition offered, and forthwith sent 
a check for the necessary expense of pub- 
lication, which was duly acknowledgde. 


294 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


Nearly another month passed before hear- 
ing anything further from the publisher, 
when she was surprised at receiving several 
letters at once. A theatrical manager 
desired to place the book before the public 
in dramatic form, others commended the 
work, and the following mail brought a 
copy of the book, with a check for a liberal 
sum from the publishing house. She con- 
cluded that her work must have caught the 
public favor and was selling well, and that 
it might pay her to go to New York and 
answer personally the communications she 
had received. She, therefore, made prep- 
arations at once, advising her correspon- 
dents of her intention. Before leaving the 
convent, she exacted a promise from Sister 
Mary Lewis to keep her informed of Amy’s 
condition and to wire her in the event of 
any immediate danger. This done, she 
bade her friends an affectionate good-bye, 
carrying with her many loving wishes for 
herself and her faithful maid. 


CHAPTER XL 


“the AMERICAN KING.’' 

A GRAND old castle, with only its towers 
visible from a distance through the foliage 
that surrounded it, stood in the center of an 
extensive park. The beauty of the artistic- 
ally laid out grounds, with green lawns out- 
lined by wide drive-ways, set off by land- 
scape gardening, rare exotics, and natural 
and cultivated growth of trees, was further 
enhanced by the picturesqeness of the almost 
illimitable scope of the densely-wooded hills 
in the background, where roamed at will 
deer and a profusion of small game for the 
huntsman’s sport. 

A handsome man, whose haughty bearing 
and air of command gave evidence that he 
was the owner of the vast domain, sat beside 
the table in the spacious library of the castle, 
opening letters and sundry packages that 
had just come by mail. Taking up a mag- 
azine from the pile, he cut and began to 
read its pages; first the criticisms on the 
latest books, for he knew his favorite 
monthly never recommended anything that 
was not worth reading, and he was fond of 
literature. 

“The American King,” a recent produc-^ 


296 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


tion, was noticed. He read a synopsis of 
the book and the comments of the press, 
which spoke of the unknown author’s genius 
in the realistic portrayal of character and 
the numerous hits incidentally aimed at the 
degradation of politics, which had caused 
many of the higher powers on the American 
continent to wince under their glaring 
truths, and through that source gain for the 
writer much consequent abuse. The book 
was declared unique in conception and plot; 
boldly depicting what were looked upon 
as the ruling powers in their true colors, 
placing them upon the level of the rest of 
mankind, to be judged as men, not as gods. 
Its playful sarcasm showed that the author 
was in touch with the world and its prom- 
inent people ; while a strong sense of justice 
was evinced in the book by the manner in 
which retribution followed the sins of its 
chief characters. It stated, in conclusion, 
that the writer had not found it necessary 
to resort to the usual methods employed to 
hold the attention of the reader through the 
less interesting portions of the work, as from 
beginning to end it went with a vim and 
dash, and, withal, it contained a world of 
meaning that made one ponder long after it 
had been laid down by the reader. 


THE AMERICAN KING.’ 


29; 


Lord Berkeley Arlingford made a mem- 
orandum of the title of the book and decided 
to purchase it on the following day, when he 
intended to run up to London for a few 
hours — for his lordship cared little for the 
society of the great city in which he had 
passed more than thirty-five years of his life 
before going to America. Like all sensible 
men, he preferred the quiet of the country 
to the continual round of pleasures in which 
the numerous pressing invitations from man- 
aging mammas and club friends urged him 
to participate. 

Vainly were snares laid for the rich and 
titled nobleman, and solicitude in sundry 
quarters for his presence and comfort was 
met with a polite but cold response. He was 
the unattainable, and consequently the much 
sought after. But society held no charms 
for him, for in his heart there dwelt the 
memory of a pretty, sad face, with soulful 
eyes, that all the beauty, wealth and culture 
of England’s proudest set could not obliter- 
ate — a face whose pitying, yet amused, look 
he had never forgotten, nor the voice, as it 
spoke in the gentle hospitality of a woman 
who reigned a queen in her little kingdom, 
offering him bread when he was hungry, 
reckless, miserably clad, and scarcely re- 


298 the woman and the world. 

covered from his previous night’s debauch. 
It was the face of one who had recalled him 
to himself when he was descending to the 
lowest depths, recognizing in him, through 
the unerring instincts of her own gentle 
nature, what his true position in life should 
be, and by that means forcing him to remem- 
ber that he ow’ed a duty to himself. In his 
tramping through the far western land of 
California, where he had gained a wealth of 
experience of human nature in its undisguise, 
she had been the only one who had be- 
stowed upon his wretched existence an un- 
selfish thought; and, as he learned her 
history from strangers, and the reputation 
her husband had taken pains to establish 
for her, he knew it to be a truth which was 
only in part a truth, and therefore more 
difficult to combat. His sympathies were 
all with the helpless woman, whose unknown 
defender he had constituted himself, work- 
ing in the position of a farm-hand upon a 
neighboring ranch until long after she had 
disposed of her property and returned to 
the city to live. 

Through his gift of reading character and 
the evidence he had had of Vera’s nature, 
he could well understand how a disposition 
like hers, with its conflicting elements and 


THE AMERICAN KING.’' 


299 


with helplessness expressed in her face, could 
create bitter enemies among a class of 
people ever upon the alert to take advantage 
of misfortune, and who would be foiled in 
their attempts to make use of her humiliat- 
ing situation. Nor did he fail readily to 
see how a woman of her independence and 
justice-loving disposition would brook no 
despotism. Yet hers was a nature that 
could not live without something to love, 
and love like hers was rare and could not be 
trampled upon. He had envied her faithful 
watch-dog, as he had from a distance seen 
her patting its head, and he recalled how 
he had appeared before her in that dissipated 
condition, and how it had brought many a 
blush of shame — he knew not why. Cer- 
tainly he was not in love, cynical man of the 
world that he had been, caring for nothing; 
yet he felt at times that had he been in a 
position to offer her protection from the 
pitiless world, he would gladly have done so. 

In the year that had passed since then, 
his dignified bearing and complete change 
of manner had proved that he was no longer 
the rake that he had formerly been con- 
sidered, and many were the surmises and 
speculations in society circles as to who 
would catch this most desirable parti. His 


300 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


old associates had sought in vain to bring 
him back to his former haunts, but Ids lord- 
ship’s two year’s experience in America, 
with the vicissitudes of fortune that had 
there overwhelmed him, had wrought an 
entire change in the former gay, rollicking 
life of the man ; and to older as well as to 
new acquaintances he now vouchsafed only 
a cold and dignified greeting. 

As he sat reading the criticisms of the 
unknown American author, his mind travel- 
led back to the year before, and to the place 
where he had come upon the interesting 
scene in California. “ I can see those laugh- 
ing eyes now as they glanced at my miser- 
able ill-clad appearance. No wonder the 
maid regretted th^at she had not some ‘ clos’ 
to give me. Ha-ha! ha-ha!” laughed his 
lordship, as he rose and lighted a cigar. 
“What a figure I must have cut ! I wonder 
if she would recognize me now.” He 
paused and stood before the large mirror to 
look at the reflection of himself and note the 
change. “ She has gone into the convent, 

I have learned since my return to England. 
I hope they won’t make a nun of her. She’s 
just one of the women who would sacrifice 
her life to what she thought was right. 
What a comrade she would be to. one who 


‘THE AMERICAN KING.” 


301 


would appreciate her character, and how 
she would repay that fortunate person with 
the wealth of love which is inherent in her 
nature. How mournfully tender and sym- 
pathetic her notes sounded in the farewell 
from II Trovatore. They seemed to embody 
a plaintive appeal for love.” His lordship 
here began to sing the words: “ Out of the 
love I bear thee, yield I my life to thee ; 
Oh, think of me ! wilt thou not think of 
me?” And as the spirit of both words and 
music took possession of him, he exclaimed, 
in a fever of excitement, pacing up and 
down the floor, “ Egad ! I am going back to 
America, and if that little woman can find 
any use for me or my titles, she can have 
everything I possess, if she will only take 
me into the bargain and become my Lady 
Arlingford.” 

He walked back to the fire-place, and 
stood with his elbow resting on the mantel, 
his eyes dreamily following the ascent of the 
rings which he blew forth as he puffed the 
smoke from his cigar into the air ; and not 
until it had burned down close to his fingers 
did he move from his thoughtful attitude. 
Taking another weed from his case, he 
lighted it, and returned to the table to 
finish the reading of his mail. 


302 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


“ Ah ! here is a book ! I wonder who 
has sent it. ‘The American King!’ by 
Jove ! Just what I wanted ! ” he exclaimed, 
as he tore off the remainder of the wrapper 
and read the title-page. Then settling him- 
self comfortably in his easy-chair, and puf- 
fing vigorously at his fresh cigar, he turned 
to the first page and began its perusal. 

His eyes opened wide with a new interest. 
“ Her very language,” he said, looking for 
the second time at the words of the manu- 
script he had read, while pretending to 
study Vera’s palm. “It must have been the 
magnetism of her thoughts, as they were 
contained in the book lying upon the table, 
that aroused me to such fierce determina- 
tion. Ah 1 my lady,” he said triumphantly, 
“ I shall be on hand to claim the reward you 
so generously promised me for my predic- 
tion, and it will be nothing less than your 
charming self.” And as he read page after 
page of the work, the fire in the end of hi^ 
cigar died out, and he tossed it impatiently 
into the grate, when a caller wasannounced. 
“ Not at home to any one,” he said, savagely, 
at the interruption, and, for the rest of the 
long evening, he remained wholly absorbed 
in the contents of the volume before him. 


CHAPTER XIL 


FRIENDS. 

Alice and Vera, fresh from an excursion 
in the sharp, wintry air, were standing be- 
fore a large mirror, removing their bonnets. 
The frost and exhilaration of the atmos- 
phere without had called the color to their 
cheeks, and caused their eyes to sparkle 
with a brightness that betrayed their high 
spirits. 

Vera took up the fetching mourning-bon- 
net and veil that Alice had worn; and put it 
on her head as she stood before the glass. 

“ What a cute little widow you would 
make ! ” remarked Alice, laughingly, admir- 
ing her friend. 

Wouldn’t I! ” replied Vera, as she looked 
at her reflection, roguishly ; “ What luck 
some women do have ! ” she continued, in 
the exuberance of her spirits. “ Here am I, 
twice a widow as well as yourself, and not 
once regularly ordained to dress so becom- 
ingly. Not that I have wished anyone to 
die; that would be dreadful ; but young 
widows in mourning do have such a catch- 
me-if-you-can sort of look with their eyes, 


304 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


which is so tantalizing to the susceptible, 
while all the time they know that ‘ Barkis is 
willin’.’ ” 

“ I am sure you don’t need the bonnet 
and veil. With all the opportunities I 
know you have had, I am surprised you 
have remained single so long ; and you so 
companionable.” 

“It is rather surprising when one comes 
to think of it,” returned Vera, indifferently ; 
“what brave men there are who, in spite 
of the circumstances, are willing to under- 
take my subjection; but what’s the use of 
my sacrificing my freedom to another master, 
when I have had such a woeful experience 
with them ? I find that men don’t want 
companions ; they want subjects.” 

“But men are not alike, Vera; they are 
not all bad.” 

“No,” said Vera, good-naturedly, and 
looking wise; “but the good ones don’t go 
round. I find men are just lovely, collect- 
ively, and most charming acquaintances, 
but individually, as husbands, Alice, they 
are quite another affair.” 

“You are horrid!” replied Alice, half- 
earnestly, yet amused at her friend. 

“ I don’t blame you for thinking so,” said 
Vera, humorously; “ you’re so lucky; some- 


FRIENDS. 


30s 


thing always has to turn up for you, even 
your husband’s toes, as they say out West, 
with expressive inelegance. If my loss had 
been fully covered, as yours has been, in more 
than one sense of the word — fifty thousand 
life insurance, thought Vera — I presume my 
mind would take a different turn also. 
However, I will amend my statement about 
husbands, for I do know many that are just 
lovely to their wives and, really, I have ex- 
perienced a great deal of happiness in wit- 
nessing their devotion, but it is impossible 
for every woman to be fortunate; there 
must be exceptions, in both instances, you 
know.” 

“ Poor Elmer! I won’t allow you to 
except him. He was not so bad as you 
think,” said Alice, trying to be serious. 

“ Perhaps not, Alice. I’ll forgive him, 
since you are relieved of him. Just the 
same, you needn’t be angry with me for 
speaking the truth. It is very lovely for 
you to work your imagination up to such 
a forgiving point, in the prevailing senti- 
ment for the dead, particularly when we 
know that his death was the consequence 
only of his cruel treatment of you ; I am 
quite well aware that it was merely his 
playful pastime to upset that lighted lamp 


3o6 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


in your lap and make you unconscious, so 
that you could not keep him out of danger 
in his intoxication.” 

“ Now, Vera, you must not talk about it 
any more.” 

“ Forgive me, Alice, I did not mean to 
shock you. I was only congratulating you 
upon your happy release from a fate which 
might have been similar to mine ; although 
I know, in Hubert’s instance, the poor fellow 
meant to do right.” 

“ You always speak so tenderly of Hubert, 
Vera, you make me think that sometimes 
you are sorry you left him, for I have never 
heard you say a word save in praise of him.” 

“ Disabuse your mind of any such idea, 
Alice. Give me all the trouble that I have 
endured since that time, and show me that 
I would have to pass through twenty times 
as much again, and I would prefer it to 
bondage with a man whom I had ceased to 
love. To me there is nothing more degrad- 
ing than such a union, with only passion 
and convention to bind it ; it is like a 
sepulchre of the dead; and it is not to be 
wondered at that women who think at all 
become restless under the yoke, and are 
unhappy. What really grieved me most 
was the wretched ending of my last mar- 


FRIENDS. 


307 


riage. I believed then that marriage was 
woman s only sphere, and at the outset I was 
so unfit to cope with the world alone; but I 
have never ceased to congratulate myself 
upon the speedy termination I put to that 
affair. True, I suffered; but suffering 
taught me independence, which I never 
would have learned had I continued to 
endure. You remember, Alice, that you 
deplored the change in me last year when 
you were visiting me in California, and I 
told you then that I was capable of changing 
again.” 

“Well, Vera, are you always going to be 
an extremist? Will you never strike a 
medium ?” 

“ Yes, I struck a medium the other day,” 
said Vera, determined to be jolly, “and I 
have found out whence have come the mis- 
takes of my life. You’ll laugh when I tell 
you, but I’m sure you will agree with me 
when you read in the horoscope which the 
old fellow cast for me, the life you know so 
well. Although astrology is one of the old- 
est sciences, people call it a humbug, be- 
cause there are so many pretenders ; but 
when we remember that the three wise men 
, of the East acted through the influence of 
their knowledge of the science, I think it is 


3o8 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


worth looking into. Again, I have come to 
the conclusion that the planets under which 
we were born have as much effect upon our 
lives as they have upon all other animal and 
vegetable matter; and were we to pay the 
same attention to the science of life and all 
that is implied in heredity as we do to the 
plant and lower animal life in their proper 
season, the results could be more accurately 
determined. Read," said Vera, as she 
handed to Alice a paper which she took 
from her satchel. “ I was born in the sign 
of Aries in the zodiac, the planet Venus in 
conjunction, with the moon in Aquarius. 
You will see for yourself it is like an open 
book in my life, and it teaches me to under- 
stand that I have had such a struggle on ac- 
count of the imperfect training I received at 
the beginning, which left me helpless in the 
hands of fate, to learn from sad experience." 

Minnie interrupted the coversation, as she 
entered and said: “If yo* please. Miss Van 
Siclan, will yo’ come an’ show me ’bout de 
unpackin’? ’’ 

When Vera returned, Alice, who had fin- 
ished reading, exclaimed: “How true! I 
have always felt that you should have been 
educated for a literary life, and, according 
to this, Aquarius seems to have governed 


FRIENDS. 


309 


you in your business successes, while 
Venus is accountable for your exquisite 
ideals, and adds power to the attainment 
of your desires. You were born under a 
fateful but not unlucky star. But tell me, 
Vera, why haven’t you ever done anything 
with your manuscripts ? I am sure you 
had some interesting narratives, fully equal » 
to the present sensation of the day that the 
papers are all raving about. Have you read 
the latest story — ‘The American King?”’ • 

“Yes, I have read every word of it, over 
and over again,” said Vera, suppressing a 
smile. 

“ It must be intensely interesting, for it is 
having a wonderful sale, and the unknown 
author is making lots of money from it, I 
learn. A friend, who is a very good critic, 
said that she never dropped the book from 
the time she began to read it until it was 
finished. I notice that it is about to be pro- 
duced at the New Continental Theatre. We 
must go and see it, Vera.” 

“ By all means, Alice, we shall; for that is 
just what I am here for — to superintend its 
production.” 

“You, Vera!” exclaimed Alice in amaze- 
ment; “ you don’t mean to say it is your 
work ? ” 


310 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


“ I have to plead guilty.” 

“ Oh, Vera, I am so glad! ” And she 
hugged and kissed her friend in delight. 
“ I shall not wait another day to get the 
book.” 

“You needn’t, dear; I will give you a copy. 
The book is receiving heaps of abuse, by the 
way; so you had better disown me before it 
is too late, But it is making money, never- 
theless, as you say, and that is the great 
desideratum.” 

“ It’s making a great hit.” 

“Yes,” said Vera, sarcastically; “it hits 
rather hard sometimes on account of its 
realism, and those whom it is hitting the 
worst are making a great howl over it. But 
the masses of the American people like 
truth, and are generally grateful for it, no 
matter from what source it comes.” 

“ It wouldn’t be your work, Vera, if it 
wasn’t real. I begin to understand now the 
difference in your appearance. The mercury 
is up, I see. You remember the tramp said 
* that you would grow younger as you 
advanced in years?’ ” 

“Yes,” said Vera; last year I was only 
thirty, or more; now I am about twenty-six.” 

“ Well, you don’t look it in your present 
mood, my dear.” 


FRIENDS. 


3II 

“ Oh, thanks,” acknowledged Vera, as she 
interpreted her compliment aright ; “ I will 
buy you a nice, pretty little doll next time 
I go out, and recover from my envy of you 
for looking so bewitching in your widow s 
bonnet.” 

“You dreadful woman!” exclaimed Alice. 

“Yes, I know that is what has been said 
of me, but it has ceased to have any effect. 
I find that other people, who have been 
abused quite as much, have remained per- 
fectly happy and contented with themselves. 
I am consoled, like the boy who was kicked 
in the face by a mule : ‘ I ain’t so pooty as 
I was, but I know a hull heap more.’ ” 

“Well, I am glad,” replied Alice, when 
she recovered from laughing at Vera’s words 
and manner, “that you have come to the 
conclusion that you have worn sackcloth 
for other people’s sins long enough ; for 
you can condense as much suffering into 
one hour as most people experience in a 
lifetime.” 

“And as much pleasure,” added Vera. 
“ I am following your advice now, Alice ; 
life has just begun for me. Like the Phoe- 
nix, I have risen from the ashes,” she con- 
tinued, as she raised her hands with a 
melodramatic flourish. “You see, I have 


3 12 THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 

been directing my play, and am becoming 
dramatic.” 

“ And you have been at the hotel all this 
time,” interrupted Alice, “without letting 
me know ? ” 

“ I found there were so many details to at- 
tend to upon my arrival that I was plunged 
immediately into work. I had advised sev- 
eral correspondents that I was coming to an- 
swer personally their communications, and I 
received calls from them immediately. Then, 
a most enterprising theatrical manager came 
on the train at Philadelphia, and took pains 
to hunt me up before I arrived in New York. 
Just fancy! Little insignificant me !” said 
Vera, with a grotesque Dahomean gesture, 
laughing at the absurdity. 

“Insignificant you!” said Alice ;“ as if 
you hadn’t always been extremely significant, 
although you never have seemed to realize 
your importance. It is a good thing you 
were in straitened circumstances, Vera; as 
otherwise I don’t think you would ever have 
ventured to send your book to the publisher. 
And here you are, the author, advertised to 
be present at the first production of the play. 
I see by the papers that every seat in the 
house has been sold. How am I to get 
there ? ” 


FRIENDS. 


313 


'‘How can you ask? as if I would not 
provide for one of my dearest friends. You 
shall occupy the seat in my box, which 
I have reserved for you, with Hubert and 
his wife, who are as anxious as I am for my 
success. The Daytons and de la Vergnes 
will occupy box D, and you will have the 
pleasure of witnessing the devotion of a 
truly good man to his wife and estimable 
mother-in-law, who, by the way, is called a 
very lovely wife and mother — ‘ one of those 
queens of the domestic kingdom about 
whom men love to prate,’” said Vera, with a 
flash of hatred in her eyes, as she thought 
of the poor dying nun. 

“ I hear that she attributes the resem- 
blance of her daughter’s little girl to Amy 
Robertson to Florence’s grief and solicitude 
for her friend and schoolmate, whom, she 
learned after her marriage, was so much in 
love with Vergne. What do you think of 
it ? ” inquired Alice. 

“ I do not like to think about it,” replied 
Vera, knowing that Florence had from child- 
hood been fully cognizant of the love that 
existed between Amy and Vergne. “ Let’s 
change the subject,” she added, with an effort 
to draw her mind from everything disagree- 
able. “ I intended to wait until Monday 


314 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


night and surprise you, Alice, but I couldn t 
keep it any longer when you began to talk 
of my writing; it came out before I thought, 
‘just like a woman,’ you know.” 

“And you will never be anything else, 
dear, but the lovable little woman that you 
are, notwithstanding that you are one of the 
newest of the new women.” 

“That’s very consoling, Alice; but what 
if my play should be a failure ? Don’t allow 
me to become too sanguine.” 

“How can it be?” answered Alice, with 
every faith in her friend’s ability. “ Sup- 
pose it were not quite the success you hope, 
you should not be discouraged, for one of 
the greatest plays ever written, ‘ The Lady 
of Lyons,’ came from the pen of a man 
whose first attempts were failures. I pre- 
sume your book expresses your great inter- 
est in the equality of rights for all human- 
ity ?” 

“ It has something of that sort in it; but I 
could not find room for it all. Do you 
think, Alice, any one would ever suspect me 
of being strong-minded?” asked Vera, as 
she threw herself on the divan and adjusted 
the cushion with luxurious abandon. 

“ Never for a moment, to look at you,” 
responded Alice, with a look of quizzical 


FRIENDS. 


3IS 

amusement, as she turned and seated her- 
self in a rocking-chair. 

“ No; it’s that imbecile face that is ac- 
countable for all my troubles in encouraging 
people in the belief that I am easily managed; 
for so many think that to be strong-minded 
means to be masculine, and to sacrifice all 
that is womanly in the acquirement of 
knowledge, when, on the contrary, it fits a 
woman more fully for the position that 
embodies the true wife and mother.” 

“I’ll tell you what it is, Alice ; the nature 
of the opposition to equality of rights by 
some men is pretty well demonstrated, to 
my mind, when I compare it to the feeling 
evinced by the South at freeing the slaves. 

“ Human nature is averse to surrender- 
ing the sense of possession, and that it is 
master — if only of the situation. The ques- 
tion of right or wrong against the sufferer 
unconsciously takes little part. And with 
men — ‘ This is mine by right because I am 
the lion’ — has been inherent in his system 
since the first taste of the tree of knowledge; 
and, with the nine points thus gained, women 
haven’t had much of a chance. Hence, the 
real trouble does not lie so much in the 
thought of woman’s unwomanliness in her 
desire for what is right, as in man’s ungodli- 


3i6 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


ness in refusing what any woman with an 
ounce of brains has a right to expect.” 

“Oh, Vera, you fairly take away one’s 
breath with your ideas,” said Alice. 

“Ungodly is the right word,” responded 
Vera; “for what is more ungodly or directly 
opposed to Christian principle than the 
autocracy of man over woman. If men 
desire to keep women womanly, they should 
do as the Chinese have done, withhold 
education from women ; for ignorance and 
womanliness seem to be synonymous terms ; 
but now that they have graciously ac- 
corded them the privilege of higher educa- 
tion, woman’s ideas are bound to change, 
and they have discovered that education and 
slavery are incompatible. Still, Tolstoi goes 
further ; he says ‘ that no education, no 
training can change women, so long as their 
highest ideal is matrimony, instead of vir- 
ginity ; until then she will remain a slave.’ 
That is true. I think it is a great mistake 
to educate girls in such a manner that it 
leaves them only the choice of matrimony, 
to escape the odium of being looked upon 
as unnatural in single blessedness, when, if 
they were left free to follow their natural in- 
stincts, which could be properly directed, they 
would not fail to demonstrate their ability.” 


FRIENDS. 


317 


“ Then you think marriage is a failure ? ” 

“ It always has been, and always will be,” 
said Vera, affirmatively; “while intelligent 
women who marry through the divine in- 
stinct are looked upon in the obscure light 
of the past ages. As well attempt to sub- 
stitute the old tallow dips, in this era of 
electricity and Roentgen-rays, as to expect 
women to remain in the yoke that stupid 
old tradition placed about their necks — that 
same tradition which once allowed a man to 
stone his wife to death if she disagreed with 
him. There would be fewer divorces, Alice, 
if the rights of women were recognized.” 

“ How would that make any difference?” 

“If the law recognized the average 
woman as the equal of the average man, 
that man would respect her right as he does 
that of his fellow-man, upon whom he does 
not dare to impose. Hence, the necessity 
for divorce would be much lessened.” 

“ But, Vera, suppose women were ac- 
knowledged as the equal of men and given 
the same rights, what should we do if there 
should be war? We’d have to fight,” ex- 
claimed Alice, with a look of alarm. 

“No danger, Alice, for Uncle Sam accepts 
only the able-bodied; and so long as fashion 
decrees that we shall tilt our bodies forward 


3i8 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


on high-heeled shoes, impede the circulation 
of blood by squeezing and deforming our 
organs, hang upon our frames from ten to 
twenty pounds of dry-goods to weigh us 
down and twist around our limbs when we 
walk, there won’t be the slightest danger of 
Uncle Sam finding an able-bodied female to 
take up arms, other than in the cause of 
infantry!' 

“That is very good, so far,” said Alice, 
laughing at Yen’s last sally; “but how 
about your pet theory of taking up and till- 
ing the soil ? Have' you outlined your 
colonization plans — the scheme in California 
where each one can make a good living from 
ten acres of ground ?” 

“Not yet; I’m leaving that for my next 
work.” 

“Write it up this way,” adjured Alice, 
rising from her chair as she proceeded to 
recite in an extravagant manner : 

“ Whereas, Weak man has found that his 
stronger sister will no longer endure the 
sting of dependence upon his limited gen- 
erosity-- timid pause! then a storm of ap- 
plause from the ladies who understand ; 

“ And, Women are held amenable 

to law, while they are classed among men’s 
belongings, his animals, et cetera, et cetera ; 


FRIENDS. 


319 


“ And, Whereas, the time has passed for 
sentimental twaddle and meaningless flat- 
tery, which appeals only to the non-progres- 
sive and to the vanity of vapid women and 
husband-hunters, while it establishes the 
under-status of the man who bestows them; 

“ And, Whereas, women are accorded the 
advantages of higher education, and find 
small remunerative opportunity to make use 
of it in this great arena, where all reference 
to the unsexing of men who hold positions 
to the exclusion of women is omitted ; 

“Be it, therefore. Resolved'. That we, the 
undersigned sisters and unrecognized citi- 
zens of God s universe, shall go forth to till 
the soil for the benefit of the aforesaid weak- 
lings of the opposite sex; that we shall plant, 
dig and build up homes for ourselves, for 
the present and future generations of said 
weakling productions, who have not the 
muscle, bone or sinew, or moral courage to 
build for themselves, and who prefer to 
remain in the position — oppressive alike to 
that health and breadth of manhood that 
God intended when he created them after 
His own image.” 

“ Bravo! bravo! bravissimo!” applauded 
Vera. That will do very well, Alice; you 
shall hold the position of chairman of the 


320 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


first convention of the colonization scheme/' 

“ Here am de book what yo’ want to gib to 
Mis Hargrove,” said Minnie, as she entered 
with it in her hand. 

“ Oh, give it to me,” cried Alice, taking it 
from her, and at once commencing to read. 

A knock at the door was answered by 
Minnie, who admitted a messenger with a 
telegram for Mrs. Van Siclan. Hastily 
tearing open the envelope, Vera read : 

“Sister Agnes is dying. Come at once, 
if you hope to see her alive. She asks for 
you constantly. 

“Sister Mary Lewis.” 

“ Oh, Alice ! ” exclaimed Vera sorrowfully^ 
“ read that ! ” And she handed her the 
despatch. 

“What will you do, dear?” 

“Do?” said Vera, as she looked at her 
watch and took a blank from the messenger- 
boy to write an answer ; “ we have an hour 
in which to catch the limited express.” And 
she wrote : 

“ I start for California in an hour. 

“Vera Van Siclan.” 

“But, Vera! Think — Monday night!” 

“Oh, Alice, if you only knew Amy. 
Monday night, with its triumph or failure, 


FRIENDS. 


321 


is as nothing- compared with the remorse I 
should feel if I were too late to see her once 
more. Do not unpack,” she said to Minnie; 
“go at once and hail a carriage.” And as 
Minnie left to obey her orders, she hurriedly 
gathered a few toilet-articles together, and 
prepared for the train. 

“ Alice, I leave you to represent me to 
the manager. You know the circumstances. 
Tell him what you please.” 

Minnie returned with the man to carry 
the luggage, saying that the carriage was- at 
the door. “Isn’t yo’ gwine fur to take me. 
Mis Van Siclan ? ” 

“No, Minnie; I shall return soon, for- 
there will be no tie in California after poor 
Sister Agnes is gone, and I can get along 
alone.” 

“Yo’ll be mighty lonesome in the keers. 
Missy, widout me, I reckon, an’ I’se no good 
if yer doan come back right soon.” 

“ I shall miss you I know, my girl, but you 
can remain with Mrs. Hargrove; can she 
not, Alice?” 

“Oh, yes, Vera; I’ll look after her until 
you return ; but we will accompany you to 
the train and talk over your plans.” 

All hastily ’donned their out-door garments, 
and Minnie, taking her mistress’s hand- 


322 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


satchel, followed them to the carriage, say- 
ing consolingly to herself, “ I’ll see de 
pe’fo’mance ob de drama, anyhow.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE NEWS BY WIRE. 

Tuesday morning: the flyer which bore 
Vera from New York was nearing Denver. 
She had just breakfasted in the dining-car, 
and was returning to the drawing-room, 
while the train was standing at the station, 
when the newsboy appeared with the morn- 
ing papers. She stopped to purchase one. 
Just then the station-telegraph operator 
entered the car carrying a despatch in his 
hand. 

“ For whom is the message ? ” she inquired 
expectantly. 

“Mrs. V. Van Siclan,” replied the opera- 
tor. 

“ That is for me,” she answered, as she 
reached out her hand to receive it. 

Opening it with fear and a beating heart, 
she read : 

“Play complete success. Your absence 
occasioned much disappointment. See my 
to-day's letter with surprising news. 

“ Alice.*" 

Vera read in a transport of happiness, 
shadowed only by the thought of the dying 


324 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


woman to whose side she was hastening, 
and whom she loved so well. 

“Poor Amy!” she sighed; “How glad 
she would be of my success.” And tears of 
mingled sorrow and joy flowed from her 
eyes, as she entered her stateroom and 
closed the door. 

Recovering herself, she glanced along the 
columns of the morning paper which she 
had purchased, and in the Associated Press 
news by wire read : “ A dramatization of 
the much-talked-of book, ‘ The American 
King,’ was produced before a house packed 
from the orchestra chairs to the topmost 
row of the gallery with fashionable first- 
nighters. The play w^as given with every 
attention to detail. From the time the cur- 
tain rose until it fell upon the last scene, it 
was greeted with oft-repeated outbursts of 
enthusiasm, scoring the greatest success of 
the season. Much disappointment was ex- 
pressed at the absence of the author; but 
when it was learned that she had foregone 
the pleasure of witnessing such a triumph in 
the unselfish wish to be with a beloved friend 
who was dying, the vast assembly bestowed 
generous applause upon the announcement 
by the manager. Among the audience, and 
seated in the box reserved for the author, 


THE NEWS BY WIRE. 


325 


was Lord Berkeley Arlingford, accompanied 
by the Honorable Claude Stanton, who, ar- 
riving in the city for the purpose of attending 
the performance too late to secure seats, had 
at the last moment been granted the privilege 
of occupying the vacant chairs in the box of 
the author, together with the personal friends 
of that lady, Mrs. Alice Hargrove, and Mr. 
and Mrs. Hubert Dayton. The numerous 
floral offerings for the absent author, which 
were especially fine, and many of them as 
unique in design as the play, were photo- 
graphed by flash-light.” 

Glancing over the list of those present 
at the performance, Vera saw among the 
names of many old acquaintances those of 
Senator Snowden, wife and daughter — the 
latter a dainty, young miss; and she felt grati- 
fied to know that her friends would experience 
pleasure in witnessing her success. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE FAREWELL MESSAGE. 

Arrived in San Francisco, Vera, with 
feverish haste, ordered the hackman to drive 
rapidly to the convent. All thought of her 
triumph was entirely lost in anxiety to learn 
of Amy’s condition, and the fear of being too 
late to see her again alive. She was met at 
the door by Sister Angela, who greeted her 
sadly, saying: “Your friend still lives, my 
dear, only to see you once more, I think. 
She was so happy and pleased to get your 
telegram. We read to her in the papers of 
your play, and her delight in your success 
has brightened her last hours; but she is 
very weak, and seemed so excited, in antici- 
pation of your coming, that the doctor 
thought it wise to give her a mild sedative. 
She is still under its influence, and you will 
have time to prepare yourself before seeing 
her. You look fatigued,” she said, as she 
conducted Vera to her room; “ I will bring 
you a cup of tea and some lunch,” Sister 
Angela added, as she noted how overcome 
with grief Vera appeared. 


THE FAREWELL MESSAGE. 


327 


“ Thanks, Sister ; I have been so anxious 
to see my friend that I have scarcely slept 
since Sister Mary wired me.” 

Vera found it difficult to restrain her 
emotion as she read in the faces of the 
sisters, who greeted her sadly, the solem- 
nity of the occasion that had brought her to 
California. 

Twice she had stood at Amy’s door and 
touched the knob to enter, and each time 
the tears had poured forth afresh and she 
would turn away to walk along the corridor 
until she had suppressed their flow. At 
last it became imperative, if she wished 
to see her friend alive, to calm herself. 
Amy was dying; so, with a great effort, 
she brought to bear all her will-power and, 
entering the chamber, managed to control 
the demonstration of her anguish. But the 
patient, who had not fully recovered from 
the stupor of the narcotic administered, at 
first failed to recognize her friend. As Vera, 
grief-stricken, gazed upon the semi-conscious 
form of the dying nun she recalled her re- 
flections concerning a poor old woman whom 
she had seen one day while standing lonely 
and despondent in the waiting-room of the 
ferry — a woman torn with grief at parting 
with her children, homely and common, her 


j 28 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


wrinkled face distorted with agony, while 
tears streamed from her half-closed eyes. 

“ Poor old thing ! ” Vera had said bitterly. 

* Go where one will, there is nothing but 
sorrow and heartache, crying and parting. 
Thank Heaven, I have arrived at that stage 
where not a living human being can cause 
me to shed a single tear at parting.’’ 

In her morbid realization of the world she 
remembered it as a matter of congratulation; 
yet here, to-day, she was standing at the 
bed-side of a friend, with uncontrollable tears 
falling like rain in silent expression of the 
agony of her aching heart, as she waited for 
Amy to awake from her sleep. 

The bell tolled the hour of four. The 
service for benediction had commenced in 
the chapel ; the holy father, who had been 
with the dying sister administering the last 
sacrament, withdrew, leaving the attendant 
sisters and Vera kneeling silently beside 
the bed of Sister Agnes, who had lovingly 
greeted her friend, upon her return to con- 
sciousness, expressing her appreciation of 
Vera’s self-denial at leaving the scene of the 
triumph which she would have experienced, 
had she remained in New York for the pro- 
duction of her play. 

Amy had rallied fully from the effects of 


THE FAREWELL MESSAGE. 


329 


the narcotic, and, In the reactionary stage 
that sometimes precedes dissolution, rested 
perfectly free from pain and the racking 
cough that had worn out her body. She 
seemed even about to recover ; the hollows 
of her face had rounded out, until all marks 
of the disease that had made her its victim 
had disappeared ; the hectic flush in her 
cheeks and the brightness of her eyes 
brought back the beauty which had once 
delighted all, and, in the transcendant lovll- 
ness of the chastened spirit, she seemed like 
a being of another world. 

Amy bade the sisters a loving farewell. 
Then, as she looked upon her kneeling 
friend, struggling to choke back the tears 
that would come, she took her hand caress- 
ingly, and said : “ Do not grieve for me, 
dear ; I am going home to rest, to life — and 
peace — eternal, and I am so happy. I only 
wish I could impart the feeling’ to you, my 
loved one, who need it so much. But it will 
be better for you in the future, I am sure,” 
she added, fondling Veras hand; “and 
remember, I shall always be near, watching 
and waiting to welcome you when you come.” 

“Oh, darling,” said Vera, despairingly, 
“ if I only could now go with you into the 

heaven you are entering.” 

/ 


330 


THE WOMAN AND THE WORLD. 


“ It is not time, yet, for you, dear one — 
you will come — by and bye.” And, turning 
again to the weeping sisters, she murmured 
gently ; “ Watch over her, for my sake and 
for her own ; her’s is a soul that is well 
worth saving.” 

The nuns in the chapel, with trembling 
voices, were singing the evening hymn of 
benediction. Amy’s head rested quietly for 
the moment upon her pillow as she listened 
to the subdued tones that sounded faintly 
sweet through the closed doors. Then turn- 
ing once more to Vera, and placing her hand 
lightly upon the bowed head beside her, 
she added gently : “ Good friend, take a 
message for me to Vergne. Tell him how 
willingly I am going, and to remember — 
that — God is merciful.” 

The head sank lower upon the pillow ; 
the hand rested heavier upon the bowed 
head beside her, which slightly raised as 
Vera, feeling its pressure, took it between 
her own and gently kissed it again and again. 

The sweet melancholy strains, as if from 
an angel choir come to waft the spirit into 
the realms above, echoed through the cor- 
ridor, penetrating the quiet of the room 
wherein the sorrowing women were kneel- 
ing. The music became softer and more 


THE FAREWELL N/ESSAGE. 


331 


subdued in its mournful cadence, seeming 
to awaken a peaceful memory as the sobbing 
words floated in to the listeners: “Hear 
the heart’s mournful sigh — Thine too — hath 
bled—” 

A smile of ineffable sweetness came to 
the slightly-parted lips of the dying woman, 
and with a sigh, as of release, the soul went 
out to the world beyond. 

God was merciful ! 






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